


Eagle Lake

by saltandbyrne



Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Summer Camp, Awkward Sexual Situations, Canonical Character Death, Comeplay, First Time, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Marshmallows, Oral Sex, Rimming, Scenting, Snark, Summer Camp, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex, Violence, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2012-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-21 22:44:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/602900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltandbyrne/pseuds/saltandbyrne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was supposed to be an easy summer job.  But everything at this camp is a little odd, and that Hale boy from the hardware store? Definitely too good to be true.  Everyone seems to have secrets, and sometimes the truth is stranger than anything Stiles can imagine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eagle Lake

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2012 Teen Wolf Big Bang. This story is entirely dazedrose's fault, and I can't thank her enough for her cheerleading, beta-reading, and general fabulousness. 
> 
> This story is a fusion with Supernatural, although it's an AU for both.

“Band-aids, Dad? Seriously?” Stiles rolls his eyes. “I'm pretty sure they have basic first-aid at camp.” He picks up his duffel bag and throws it in the back of the Jeep along with the two _other_ bags his Dad had insisted he take.

 

“I just want you to be prepared.” His dad leans against the side of the car and smiles at him. “And you're a counselor now, you need to be ready for anything.”

 

“Junior counselor, Dad.” Stiles slams the hatch shut and walks around to face his father. “All the responsibility, but none of the power of the upper echelons of counselor-hood.” Stiles wouldn't be 17 until the fall, leaving him in that dreadful twilight age between camper and counselor. Thankfully his Dad had been able to pull some strings with Bobby Singer and get him a job for the summer despite his age.

 

“It sounds like a nice place, and I'm sure Bobby'll take care of you.” Stiles wasn't precisely sure how his Dad knew this Bobby guy, but he'd seemed cool over the phone. His job interview had consisted of Bobby asking him if he “smoked reefer” (“No, sir,”) and could “manage to keep the little brats from drowning” (“Yes, sir”).

 

“You're sure you've got the directions? And all the phone numbers?” His Dad is making that “work myself up into worried single-parent frenzy” face so Stiles puts his hand on his arm and shushes him.

 

“Dad, for the last time, I'm good. It's, like, a five hour drive. I think I can handle it.” Holding up the third box of granola bars his Dad had forced on him, Stiles raises his eyebrows. “And I have plenty of snacks.”

 

“Alright, son.” His dad stuffs his hands in his pockets and shrugs his shoulders. “Can't blame an old man for worrying.” He had to whip out the old man stuff. Shameless.

 

Stiles tosses the box of granola bars onto the passenger seat and goes in to hug his Dad. As usual it's pulled off with olympic-level awkwardness and a seriously gold-medal-winning uncomfortable silence.

 

“Call me. But not while you're driving.”

 

Stiles doesn't even dignify that one with a reply, but he can't resist a little dig as he starts the Jeep.

 

“Don't worry, Dad.” Stiles grins sweetly. “How much trouble could I possibly get into at an all-boys camp in the middle of nowhere?”

 

*

Stiles didn't have particularly high expectations for the Eagle Lake Boys' Camp. Between his perfunctory phone interview and the little he'd gleaned from his Dad about the owner, he figured the place was going to be a few fluffy towels short of a luxury resort.

 

He turns the Jeep down the long driveway, which he almost missed because the ancient, hand-painted sign announcing the place was half-covered by overgrown weeds. He drives past what is ostensibly a baseball field, although Stiles suspects there are MLB regulations against knee-high grass on the outfield. The gravel crunches under his tires as he turns the bend and pulls into the camp proper. Stiles takes a moment to sit and behold the Eagle Lake Boys' Camp.

 

Put kindly, the Eagle Lake Boys' Camp is a fucking dump.

 

Stiles isn't entirely sure where to park his car, nor is he sure how many of the cars strewn throughout the grounds are actually working. Two of them are on genuine cinderblocks and look like they could have dogs living underneath them.

 

Small cabins sit like crooked teeth against the edge of the property, six of them in a row abutting a thick wooded area. The red and white paint might have been cheerful in the sixties, which is a generous estimation of their last paint job, but now it just reminds Stiles of that presentation he had to watch about Emily Rosen's community outreach trip to Appalachia.

 

Some of the cabins have small numbers nailed over the doors, while others have faded paint proclaiming them 4 and 6. Not a single cabin has an intact screen door.

 

The picnic area is an equally inspiring sight. It looks like mother nature is slowly taking it back, with an assortment of weeds growing over two rotted-out picnic tables. The ones that aren't literally rotting into the ground look awfully close, and even the sturdier plastic ones appear to have a very diverse mold population growing on them.

 

At least the lake is beautiful. A long dock leads out to the water, which is smooth as glass and reflects the white-tipped mountains off in the distance. A string of crusty buoys closes off what Stiles presumes is the designated swimming area.

 

Turning back to the camp, Stiles heads for the largest building on the site. The stone walls look sturdy, if a little dirty with age. It even has an enormous chimney and one of those slate-shingled roofs. Stiles can imagine the old pile introducing itself with great gravitas as “The Lodge.”

 

He's greeted inside by a sea of new faces. He immediately picks out Bobby, who matches perfectly with Stiles' mental image of the gruff-voiced, no-bullshit man he'd spoken to on the phone. His trucker hat bears no trace of hipster irony, and if his beer belly is a little smaller than Stiles had envisioned, that's only because he has the put-upon look of a man constantly called on to repair things.

 

“Well, hello there, you must be -” Stiles cuts Bobby off before he can say it.

 

“Stiles. I'm Stiles. That's what everyone calls me, just Stiles.” Stiles is determined to hit this first impression thing out of the park.

 

“Hi, Stiles, welcome to Eagle Lake. How was your drive?” Bobby says it with the measured patience of someone who could give a rat's flying asshole how his drive was.

 

“It was fine, sir.” Always err on the side of caution, especially when addressing someone who signs your barely-minimum-wage paycheck.

 

“Oh, not you, too.” Bobby turns to the two boys sitting at the table behind him. “If one more of you boys calls me “sir” I'm gonna keel over and die from feeling like such an old fart. Call me Bobby, for christ's sakes.”

 

The two boys laugh and nod. One of them looks way too young to be even a junior counselor, although he might be a professional reader with the way he reaches for his soda and takes a sip without looking up from his book. The older one smirks and leans back in his chair.

 

Stiles has always been ok with being, well, a little bit gay. It wasn't something he gave much thought to, assuming the truly astounding variety of things he whacked off to didn't really count as “thoughts.” Besides, being gay or straight or any sexual orientation would imply that Stiles was, in fact, having sex. Aside from his many loving and amorous evenings with palmela and her five sisters, Stiles was still 145 pounds of pale skin and virgin.

 

Stiles is also pretty sure that whoever this kid is, and it's not like Stiles has already dubbed him “Lips McFreckles” in his spank bank, he's worthy of his own sexual orientation.

 

“I'm Dean Winchester, and this is my brother Sammy.” Yep, Dean-Winchester-sexual, the sexual orientation anyone with functional eyeballs could subscribe to.

 

“It's Sam.” The younger one glances up at him with a shy smile before ducking his head back down to his book.

 

“Hi, I'm Stiles, which, I mean, you already know because I just said it, but that's still my name, so, yeah.” First-impression home run, score one for team Stilinski.

 

Stiles introduces himself to the other counselors that have arrived: Danny, Ash and Boyd. They're all friendly, although Ash looks like he might have completely replaced his DNA with THC. Stiles is pretty sure he could get high just by smoking a couple of hairs off his mullet.

 

“Who wants guacamole?” Stiles turns in unison with every other man in the room to look at the vision of perfection appearing from the swinging doors at the back of the lodge.

 

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Bobby smiles fondly at the short-haired MILF carrying the huge bowl of chips and dip like some sort of snack goddess. “Stiles, this is my wife, Jody. She'll be feeding you all summer, so don't piss her off.”

 

“Awww, don't scare the boy, Bobby. Hi, Stiles, nice to meet you.” Jody sets the bowl down and steps back as the hungry teenage boys circle in. Stiles is not too good to join the pack of hungry dogs, shamelessly stuffing his face with as much guacamole as one chip can hold.

 

Jody seems to understand his, “This is delicious,” even if it sounds more like, “S'f'dlshushh” with background chip-crunching noises. The temporary silence of ravenous consumption is abruptly broken when the screen door slams open.

 

“All right, Eagle Lake, the fun can begin!” A short blonde kid steps inside, arms flung wide open. He's the sort of boy a mother would call “big-boned.”

 

“The Trickster is here.” Stiles has nothing personal against self-appointed nicknames, but at least his is based on his actual last name. Anyone who refers to himself in the third person as “The Trickster” is pretty much guaranteed to give Stiles a wedgie. Stiles sighs and eats another scoop of guac.

 

Ash, Boyd and Danny all seem to know the kid, while Dean and Sam stay seated and eye him warily. Dean is definitely not wedgie-victim material, but Sam is even smaller than Stiles so maybe it's protective older brother syndrome. Stiles has heard that that's a thing, and it's totally _not_ something he's going to jerk off to later.

 

“Gabe, my man. Where's Cas, dude?” Ash manages to make everything he says sound like the opening lines to a generic 80's stoner movie.

 

“I'm right here.” The screen door slams again as the final counselor arrives. He's with the blonde-haired assclown, so Stiles assumes they're related somehow, but he can't discern any similarity between them. Cas is slender and pale, with messy black hair and enormous blue eyes, and if it didn't make Stiles feel like a giant gaylord he'd use the term “china doll.” He could definitely give Lips McFreckles a run for his money in the cocksucking lips department, that's for sure.

 

Stiles blushes a little. Sometimes his mind was so dirty he embarrassed himself. As Bobby introduces Cas and Gabe, Stiles feels slight relieved that he isn't the only one with his mind somewhere distinctly south of Cas' rumpled t-shirt.

 

“I'm Dean Winchester.” He says it with so much gusto Stiles half-waits for “and I endorsed this message” to follow. Instead he makes a bee-line for Cas, barely sparing Gabe a nod as he firmly shakes the blue-eyed boy's hand. “Nice to meet you.”

 

Somehow, that simple nicety sounds so incredibly charming and sexy rolling off his mouth that even Stiles' panties are starting to feel moist, jesus. He catches Sam rolling his eyes and sighing. Clearly subtlety is not his older brother's thing.

 

Stiles has heard the phrase “eye-fucking” numerous times, generally while Scott smacks him upside the head and tells him to stop doing it. But these two, for fuck's sake, that whole lips-parted, eyes-hooded, hearts-racing thing was only supposed to happen in the pulpy romance novels that Stiles has totally not ever stolen from Ms. McCall. Stiles hasn't added this many books to his wank-library since he discovered that european porn-torrent site.

 

“Well, now that we're all introduced,” Bobby says pointedly, “let's get to work.” Jody is clearly a woman after Stiles' heart, looking incredibly bemused as Dean and Cas both lick their lips (synchronized lip-licking, add that to the spank-list) and turn to face Bobby.

 

Stiles' arm almost cramps from holding back the joyful fist-pump he wants to do when he gets assigned to Dean's cabin, lucky number 5. Stiles is a little bit gay, and he's a little bit freaky, ok? If he wants to smell another guy's laundry, that is totally his own business. Bobby tells them where to get brooms and start sweeping up their new summer homes.

 

Cleaning out the cabins is a fucking bitch of a task, even with both Winchesters helping. Stiles hasn't seen this many cobwebs in one place since that haunted house last year, and those weren't even real. “What do they, have arachnes in here?” Stiles jokes as he swipes the broom at a giant web in the rafters.

 

Both brothers instantly stop what they're doing and stare at him. “What did you just say?” Dean narrows his eyes.

 

“Arachnes. You know, spider monsters.” Sam and Dean look at each other and exchange some kind of indecipherable look. “Like from Elder Scrolls.” True, Dean doesn't look like much of a gamer, but Sam has grade-A nerd written all over him. Stiles knows his own kind. “The video game, Elder Scrolls? Elves and wizards and stuff?”

 

“Oooooh,” Dean says, face breaking out in a smile. “I actually get laid, so I wouldn't know, but maybe if you're really nice Sam here'll share his 20-sided die with you.”

 

“That's just cause you stick your dick in anything with a pulse.” Sam smirks and goes back to sweeping.

 

“Don't worry, Sammy, you'll be a real boy one day, too.” Dean ruffles his brother's hair and picks up the dustpan. “I'm just fucking with you, Stiles. Sam and I don't really get to play a lot of video games.”

 

“Are you from one of those no-TV homes? I've heard rumors about those.” Stiles sneezes as a fresh cascade of dust rains down on him. How did all this possibly build up in a single year?

 

Sam goes still and looks at the floor. Dean smiles as he knocks the dustpan into the wastebasket. “You could say that.” Stiles isn't exactly Emily Post when it comes to social etiquette, but he'd have to be deaf not to hear the warning note in that answer. So Lips doesn't want to talk about his home life. Stiles could relate.

 

“So, how about that “Trickster” guy, huh?” When in doubt, change the subject to mocking other people. Surely that was in the etiquette books.

 

“Bobby was telling me about him. Been working here the past few summers, loves playing pranks. Apparently the kids love him. Sort of a jackass, but he seems harmless.” Dean flips the mattress over on the bed he'd claimed as his own and pulls a face as a cloud of dust mites float through the air.

 

“What about his brooo-ooother?” Sam sing-songs out, crossing his arms and raising his eyebrows at Dean.

 

“Cas? Yeah, he looks like he's got a, uh,” Dean leans back on the unmade bed and rests his head on his hands, “really nice _pulse_.” He winks at Sam and smirks. Sam rolls his eyes and mimes barfing before he takes the broom outside.

 

Stiles' mouth may fall open a little bit, but that's hardly his fault. Dean catches him and frowns. “Is that gonna be a problem, Stiles?”

 

The self-control of the year award goes to Stiles for not instantly blurting out, “Only if I can't watch.” Instead he just blinks a few times before he opts for nervous jazz-hands.

 

“That is completely, totally, not at all a problem at all, like, so not even a problem it's like I wouldn't even notice if you two had sex in here, I mean, not that I'm thinking about you two having sex or anything, because that would be totally inappropriate of me, but if you were, like, going to have gay sex all over our cabin I wouldn't care at all, really, I mean, hey, I'm a little bit gay, too.” So much for the not-blurting award. Stiles settles on awkward shrug #34.

 

Dean is looking at him like he's a really amusing alien that he's only now assessing. “Well, that's, uh … good to know.”

 

They both start when they hear a bell clanging in the distance. “Well, fuck me,” Dean slaps the old mattress and stands up. “They've got a dinner bell and everything. This place is like a fucking time capsule.”

 

Dean claps a hand over Stiles' shoulder. “Don't worry, man. I'll make sure you _and_ Sam get some by the end of the summer.”

*

“Sloppy joes!” Dean puts his hand up for a high-five that Stiles unenthusiastically reciprocates. Four sloppy joe nights in the course of two weeks was asking a lot, even from a group of teenage boys. Eagle Lake Boys' Camp was run on a budget that would make a shoestring look bloated, and while Jody clearly did her best with what she had, Stiles was pretty sure the animals at Scott's summer job were eating better than Stiles was.

 

“Oh joy,” Stiles deadpans. Sam shrugs and pushes past him, taking his place on line with the other campers. They were an appropriately rag-tag group, and seemingly all of their moms or dads knew Bobby or Jody somehow. Stiles still isn't sure how Bobby knows so many mechanics and traveling salesmen, but he's been too busy to really think about it.

 

Stiles had somehow become the camp's appointed swimming instructor, despite the fact that he had absolutely no certification to do so. He was pretty sure it was illegal, but then again so was just about everything at Eagle Lake. The cases of beer Dean had stashed under their porch were definitely illegal, and while he wasn't too clear on California age of consent laws, he was sure there was something illegal about the sheer volume of sex everyone except him seemed to be having.

 

Dean and Cas had been a no-brainer, and Stiles was surprised it even took three days for those two to start tongue-wrestling up against the back of their cabin. And if Stiles had maybe listened in a little more than was socially appropriate, that was his business, ok? It was pretty much the worst-kept secret at camp, especially after Gabe had painted the back of their cabin red one night. Dean and Cas had both shown up the next morning with suspicious clumps of red in their hair and a matched set of ruined shirts.

 

When Stiles had wandered into the shed housing the canoes and safety gear, he'd forever forsworn safety after watching Danny give Boyd a seriously AVN-awards-worthy blowjob all over the lifejackets. And finding Ash and Gabe smushed together in the laundry closet had just been straight-up gross.

 

Stiles stares at the suspiciously-gray heap of ground meat on his plate. Yeah, the dogs at the animal hospital were definitely getting better food. Jody arches an eyebrow at him, so he puts on his best yum-face and carries his tray back to the counselors' table. There are two other junior counselors besides Stiles, and all nine bodies can barely fit at the round table designated for them.

 

Elbowing his way in between Danny and Cas, Stiles sets his tray down and half-heartedly picks up his fork. Danny is involved in a particularly riveting conversation with Boyd about “p90x,” whatever the fuck that is, so Stiles turns to Cas. While he's become friendly with Dean and Sam, Cas still eludes Stiles. It's not that he isn't friendly, he's just … odd.

 

“Have you ever given yourself a stranger, Stiles?” Cas tilts his head and looks at Stiles questioningly. See? Odd.

 

Dean snickers as Stiles puts his fork down and leans back in his chair. Might as well take the bait.

 

“What's a stranger, Cas?” Stiles raises his eyebrows and waits for the joke.

 

“It's when you sit on your hand until it's numb.” He takes a bite of gelatinous mashed potatoes and chews. “Then you masturbate with it.”

 

The whole table goes silent for a moment before Danny starts laughing. “You are such a fucking freak, Cas.” Everyone chuckles as Cas makes a wide-eyed, “Who, me?” face at Stiles.

 

“Oh, you have no idea,” Cas says placidly, as Dean lets out a muffled yelp and snorts into his glass. Only one of Cas' hands is visible.

 

Gabe winks at Stiles and leans forward conspiratorially. “This one time, I walked in on Cas with his-”

 

Whatever TMI-tidbit Gabe was about to share gets cut off by the din of shrieking boys as the lights flicker once and then go out.

 

“Oh, Christ!” Bobby slaps his hand against the table. “That goddamn generator, piece of crap.” Jody herds everyone outside while Bobby keeps cussing (which is the only time Stiles would ever use the word “cussing” but there's just no other way to describe it).

 

“Who wants s'mores?” Jody's question is drowned out by a chorus of cheers, not the least enthusiastic of which is Stiles'. Ash and Danny set about building a campfire while Stiles helps Jody carry out an armful of marshmallows, graham crackers and no-name chocolate bars.

 

“I'm calling Old Man Hale,” Bobby grumbles at Jody, swinging his flashlight into Stiles' face as they pass him in the dark lodge. “Alright, sweetheart,” Jody pats her husband's arm. “He'll fix it right up, you'll see. Just don't let him scare the kids.”

 

Bobby looks at her with an expression that makes Stiles nervously juggle the confections in his arms because, ewwww, old people making out. Jody gives Bobby a chaste peck on the cheek and herds Stiles out towards the campfire.

 

“So what's up with Old Man Hale?” Stiles pitches his voice low and spooky. The name alone sounds like one of the ghost stories Gabe likes to tell the kids.

 

“He owns the local hardware store, which makes him about the closest thing Spaulding has to a mayor.” Jody lowers her voice in the universal whisper of adults discussing uncomfortable things. “He was in a terrible fire some years back, and his burns sort of … scare the kids.” She stops as they approach the campfire. “Between you and me, he sort of scares me, too, but we're basically stuck with him. Anyway, the kids love it when the power skips out. It's the only time I let 'em roast marshmallows.”

 

He's almost mauled when he arrives, but Jody steps in and makes sure the marshmallows are evenly doled out. Stiles impales one and tries to find a good spot on the fire. His mom had been a girl scout, and she'd had, like, a black-belt in marshmallow-roasting. It was all about finding the perfect coals, the ones that burned white-hot with a red glow in the center.

 

He rolls his eyes as Dean sticks a marshmallow directly into the flames, blowing it out before sliding off the burnt carcass and popping it in his mouth. Amateur.

 

“He always does that.” Sam perches next to him on the half-rotted log that Stiles has claimed as a seat. He sets his marshmallow next to Stiles', close enough to the embers to get a nice, toasted shell. “Not really the patient type, is he?” Stiles squints at his marshmallow before returning it to the heat.

 

“He can be.” Sam stares at the campfire for a second before shaking his head slightly. “Yeah, but not when it comes to dessert.” Sam might be three years younger than Stiles, but sometimes Stiles felt like the kid around him. Occasionally Stiles caught him staring off into space and looking a hell of a lot older than either of them.

 

“My mom taught me how to do this. She was a girl scout.” Way to kill the awkward moment, Stiles, bring up your dead Mom. He tries to think up something not totally depressing to follow that one up with and fails.

 

“My mom's dead, too.” Sam says quietly. “She died when I was a baby. I never knew her.” Sam pulls his marshmallow back and stares at it. It's toasted perfectly.

 

“My mom is … wait, dead too, how did you know about my mom?” Stiles had never mentioned it, he was sure.

 

“You said she _was_ a girl scout. That generally means someone's dead. Or else you would have said she used to be a girl scout.” Sam looks at him quickly.

 

“I … oh, I mean, yeah, that totally makes sense.” Sam is way too observant for a 13-year-old. Seriously.

 

“Well that … sucks,” Stiles says lamely, but what else is he going to say? Welcome to the club? Did you get your toaster? Dead-mom solidarity fist-bump, bro?

 

Sam shrugs his shoulders. “Yeah. I mean, I almost think it's easier for me, you know? I never really knew her. It's just always been my Dad and Dean. I think it's harder on them, remembering her, missing the stuff she'd do. You know.”

 

Stiles looks at his expertly-bronzed marshmallow and sighs. He sure did know.

 

“Graham cracker?” Sam hands him the cellophane wrapper, and Stiles gladly accepts the distraction. Sam, observant little elder-soul that he is, steers the conversation to Lord of the Rings and they pass the rest of the evening debating just how gay Frodo's relationship with Samwise really was.

 

Stiles sits by the fire until everyone's left, feeling like a huge girl as he comfort-eats himself full of s'mores. He hears Dean clomping towards the fire, and seriously, who wears boots around a summercamp? It can't be lights-out already. And it wasn't like Dean was gonna stay in bed for more than five minutes before he snuck out and gave Cas a stranger or whatever they did together. Stiles smirks as he stuffs his remaining s'more in his mouth. He'd jerked off to just about every possible permutation of Cas/Dean/dick/hole/other that he could think of.

 

With a mouthful of sticky goodness, Stiles turns around to tell Dean he'll be there in five minutes, pausing to look at Dean's loud-as-fuck boots and his black jeans and, wait, when did Dean get black jeans? Stiles follows the black denim straight up. And up. And then up some more.

 

Oh. Not Dean.

 

Stiles is used to looking at people and feeling attracted to them. This is nothing new. It happens to him several times a day, even in sparsely-populated areas. Pitching for both teams made it pretty easy to find something worth drooling over no matter what the circumstances.

 

But this, this was … different. This was way past a little drooling and a hasty mental snap-shot of relevant body parts for a deposit slip to the wank-bank. This was Scarlett O'Hara pounding the dirt with her bare fist, “with god as my witness I will never be hungry again,” Bill Compton with a mouthful of fangs, “Sook-eh is maaaahhhhn” territory.

 

This man, and he was a _man_ and yes that was Scarlett O'Hara's accent in his head, was just unbelievable. Who looks like that? Like six feet of chiseled porn? Like people would spend hours fucking with their hair just to get it to look like the black, tousled “I just rolled out of bed and left behind a sea of slack-jawed, post-orgasmic underwear models” spikes on his head? Like he might rip you to pieces with his teeth while simultaneously making you come your brains out of your ears? Like the president of the International Association of Dangerous Sexy Bad Boys has a secret shrine to him in the back of his office?

 

Is a fear-boner even a thing? Because Stiles has one.

 

The way it goes in Stiles' head is like this: Stiles leans back on his arm, the elegant arch of his neck catching the flickering firelight. He languorously licks the burnt sugar off his lips, a tantalizing hint of what's to come for the dark stranger standing over him. Tilting his head back in one elegant and fluid motion, Stiles regards the mysterious man with dark, mysterious eyes, adding to the mysterious atmosphere building around them like an electrical storm of mysteriousness. Seductively arching an eyebrow, Stiles gracefully extends his famed sex-hands, smiling as the handsome stranger gasps at the miasma of sexy radiating from Stiles' lithe form. “Would you like … s'more?”

 

What really happens is more like this: Stiles leans back on his arm, and the rotten wood of the log under his ass decides it's done with this world, splintering under Stiles' hand and making him yelp with surprise. Still trying to keep with the program, Stiles attempts to lick the burnt sugar off his lips, having forgotten that a mouthful of s'more is like having fucking crazy glue in your teeth. Stiles doesn't elegantly tilt his head back so much as break his fall with his skull against dark stranger's leg.

 

And the garbled, mush-mouthed version of his awesome, like, triple-double entendre pick-up line is barely worth quotation marks, although it could perhaps be transcribed as “Schmurfghth” when they engrave it on his tombstone after he dies of embarrassment.

 

Dark stranger just looks down at him, where Stiles' head is still resting against his leg while his own legs are all akimbo and embedded with rotten wood shards. El Mysterio just licks his lips, once, and inhales deeply, lips curling up in a feral sort of smile like he's smelling something really delicious. Maybe he really does like s'mores.

 

Or maybe he's actually going to eat Stiles, because seriously, since when do handsome strangers just show up at boys' camps in the middle of nowhere with any plans other than serial killing? Stiles is going to get serial-killed, and all he can do is look up at his future cannibal axe-murderer and gape.

 

A fear-boner is definitely a real thing, because Stiles is sporting one so big that the awkward police can probably see it from space. In a lifetime of inexplicable boners, Stiles is pretty sure that his “I'm about to get cut into little pieces by a gorgeous psycho” woody is the least 'plicable.

 

“You ok?” What a funny thing to say before you dismember someone. Maybe he's just buying time to fish out his hockey mask and/or suit made of girl-skin.

 

Stiles forces the languishing s'more in his mouth down with a painfully-loud gulp. He's not going down without a fight. “I'm ok, I'm ok and I have a family and I really want to go to college and I don't want to die a virgin and please don't kill me.”

 

Tall, dark and murderous just looks down at him, tilts his head and smiles.

 

“I'm Derek Hale. I wasn't planning on killing you, but I do have a part for your generator.”

 

Stiles' spinal cord finally decides it's time to start transmitting messages to the rest of his limbs. His limbs decide that Stiles hasn't been embarrassed enough, so his attempt to stand up like a human being is completely unsuccessful. At least his head isn't on sex-god's leg anymore, although it's not much better off on the ground.

 

“Need a hand?” Stiles had totally been winging that whole “sex-hands” thing but yes, obviously, this guy has sex-hands, one of which he's extending towards Stiles.

 

“Thanks.” While a normal person would have lost his hard-on somewhere between mouthful of marshmallow-glue and literally lying face-up in the dirt, Stiles merely feels his salute to further attention as Sexy Bad Boy ™ pulls him to his feet like he's a very small kitten. “I'm Stiles.”

 

“Can you tell me where I can find Bobby Singer?” Jesus christ, he's even better-looking face to face, although Stiles would not object to getting a better look at him from knee-height. This can't be Old Man Hale, unless that was all some sort of joke that he didn't get. Or it's an ironic nickname, like calling a fat kid “Tiny.”

 

“You don't look that old.” That came out, didn't it? Stiles smiles as charmingly as he can manage and slowly backs away as Derek frowns slightly.

 

“Excuse me?” Stiles has never given any special thought to eyebrows as being sexy, but watching Derek draw them together and look even more menacing makes Stiles' endless-porn-brain instantly picture him scowling with a ruler in one hand, telling Stiles to bend over his desk because his homework is just not up to par.

 

This fear-boner is seriously becoming a problem.

 

“I just meant, you know, Bobby said he was gonna call Old Man Hale, and here you are, not old at all, I mean, you look old enough to, like, buy beer and stuff but not, like, old-old and you're definitely not scary-looking, I mean, you're kind of scary but not in a looks-scary way, you're just, kind of, yeah, um, anyway, want a s'more?”

 

Maybe there's some sort of community service program for gorgeous strangers to have pity sex with socially-awkward virgins. Barring that, Stiles figures he's pretty much back to memorizing body parts and furiously jerking off. At least there's a lot to memorize.

 

“I think you're talking about my uncle. He's sort of scary looking.” Derek smiles slightly at that. “Actually, he's just straight-up scary.” Stiles is genuinely scared to know what Derek Hale, Lord Sexy Eyebrows finds scary.

 

“And, no, thank you.” Scott has this totally stupid joke where he mumbles out _stupidsayswhat_ and Stiles inevitably says, “What?” It's pretty much the same feeling when he says it to Derek.

 

“The s'more. I'm good. Don't really like sweets.” Derek holds up the paper bag he's apparently been carrying this whole time, although Stiles has just noticed it. To be fair, even Stiles would be hard-pressed to jerk off to a paper bag, so it's not like he was giving it high billing on the “mentally lick every inch of Derek's body” cabaret in his head. It's got jangly things in it, which would make sense that the generator would need jangly things, being a machine and all.

 

Derek fixes machines. Derek probably fixes machines in an old, threadbare tank top, smudged with grease stains and glistening with sweat. Derek is good with his hands, his strong, nimble fingers deftly adjusting all the complex parts of the generator as he grunts softly with exertion. His concentration is broken as Stiles ambles into the room, v-neck t-shirt highlighting his smooth, pale chest. Derek's eyes trace over the white expanse of it before lingering on the ice-cold beer held in Stiles' infamous sex-hands, mouth parting open with rapt desire as he sighs out Stiles' name like a desperate plea, a desperate plea for sex and -

 

“Bobby.” Derek looks at him like he's watching a really slow but amusing puppy. “Where is Bobby?” Did he really have to say it that slowly? It's not like it's Stiles' fault that he can't focus, he's not the one walking around looking like viagra on legs. Stiles knows it's just the firelight, but his eyes are so beautiful, radiant and expressive. He looks like he could tell Stiles exactly how to suck his dick without uttering a word, like he could just communicate it with a series of commanding, searing gazes that Stiles is totally not picturing at this precise second.

 

“He's in the Lodge, probably.” Derek is probably really good at building fires, too. He lifts the poker and settles the logs in the Lodge fireplace, golden light flickering across his bare chest. He turns to face Stiles, eyes darkening with animal lust as he takes in the sight of his smooth, slender body laid out on the the bearskin rug. “We'll have to find other ways to keep warm,” he says, voice hoarse with wanton desire as he pushes Stiles down and spreads his -

 

“Can you show me?” _Stupidsayswhat?_ “What?”

 

“The Lodge. Can you take me there? I've never been here before.” Derek raises one of those ridiculous porn-brows. “And I wouldn't want to scare anybody.”

 

Stiles leads the way with his flashlight and his boner, the few remaining s'more components stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie sweatshirt.

 

“So, you've never had the pleasure of touring Eagle Lake Boys' Camp before?” Stiles has about two minutes to sweep Derek off his feet.

 

“No.” Ok, that went well.

 

“So did you just move here?” Most people like talking about themselves.

 

“Yeah.” What part of tall, dark and blindingly-hot made Stiles think Derek would be like most people?

 

“Where from?” The porch of the Lodge is looming nearer and nearer.

 

“Brooklyn.” Two syllables. This is progress. Maybe.

 

“So you're more of a salty snack kinda guy, huh? I hear that, I mean, sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don't, right?” Nothing says “please rip my pants off with your teeth” like candy-bar jingles from the 80s. Stiles sighs as they step on the porch.

 

“Is that the Hale boy?” Bobby slams the screen door as he leans outside and looks Derek up and down. “Well don't just stand there,” he grumbles, heading back inside, “Idjits,” trailing off into the Lodge.

 

This is clearly Stiles' cue to leave, the last thing he needs to do is add his complete ineptitude with appliances to the long list of “reasons you should devirginize me.” He gives tall, dark and porn-some one last look-over before he nods and turns to leave.

 

He doesn't even hear it, just senses something behind him that makes him go stock-still. All he can feel is Derek's hot breath right against his ear. “I don't like sweets,” he says in a tone that would make Christian Bale's bat-growl sound wimpy, “but I eat a lot of meat.” Stiles squeaks, shamefully, as he feels something slide into the back pocket of his jeans.

 

The only thing that saves Stiles from fainting is the fact that all the blood in his body has already rushed to his dick, so there's none left to leave his brain. By the time he turns to leave Derek's gone, the screen banging against the doorframe the only hint that he'd gone inside.

 

Stiles reaches into his pocket and pulls out a business card for Hale Hardware. He puts it back inside and half-stumbles to the showers, because more than he needs to breathe right now he needs to rub one out thinking about Derek Hale's hardware banging him like a screen door in a hurricane.

 

*

 

“You can't call him.” Dean shoots Stiles a quick look in the rear-view mirror before returning his eyes to the road.

 

“Why not? He gave me his number.” It sounds lame even as Stiles says it.

 

Dean rolls his eyes. “Guys like that are all the same. You gotta play hard to get with 'em. You know, give him a little chase or something.”

 

“But I am so, incredibly, fantastically, unbelievably easy to get. I am the EZ-bake oven of getting.” Stiles throws his hands up.

 

“Look, trust me. Bad boy just rolled into town? He probably has every moderately good-looking piece of ass for 20 miles hanging off his every word. Which, by the way,” Dean cocks an eyebrow, “'I eat a lot of meat'? Seriously?”

 

Stiles feels his dick twitch just thinking about it. It sounded so much less stupid when Derek said it.

 

“So you gotta set yourself apart, young Jedi. Let him think you've got some other cards in the deck, you know? If you call him right now, you're just like every other star-struck local he's using his lame-ass pick-up lines on.” Dean nods, satisfied with his Dr. Phil impression.

 

Stiles has to admit it has some advantages over his plan, which consisted of basically picking up the phone and panting, “Put your penis in me.” Stiles wasn't exactly used to having the sex-ball in his court, and Dean was pretty much the captain of the team.

 

Stiles sulks and slouches down in the backseat. “Yeah, well, it's not like you exactly played hard to get with Cas.”

 

The blue-eyed counselor next to him smiles placidly. “He does have a point, Dean. You were just hard.”

 

Dean doesn't even have the decency to blush. “Yeah, and you were so f-”

 

“I'm actually going to barf. Like, literally, I have vomit in my throat, going to hurl all over the car.” Sam thuds his head back against the head-rest. “You are so gross.”

 

“Sam, you're far too young for me, we've discussed this, although-”

 

“Shut up, Cas.” Both Winchesters roll their eyes.

 

“Well, that will make it difficult to give you directions, won't it?” Cas says tersely. “Make the left here.”

 

“Is this place any good?” Sam sighs and looks back at Cas.

 

“Harvelle's is decent, and it will taste significantly better the longer you consume Jody's food. And they have ice cream.”

 

Harvelle's Ice Cream Parlor and Grill was the great carrot dangled before the Eagle Lake campers. They got to go there every other Sunday, assuming they were good. If anyone stepped out of line, Bobby gave them all the stink-eye and bellowed, “If you want to go to Harvelle's, tell Jimmy to stop horsing around on the goddamn canoes!” or whatever current offense had a bee in his bonnet.

 

Today is the first big trip to Harvelle's, and the campers had practically bounced out of their skin with excitement. Stiles says a silent thank-you to the gods that he was able to hitch a ride with Dean in his car and avoid the crappy vans full of screaming kids.

 

“Turn right,” Cas instructs, gazing out the car window as they drive past trees, trees and more trees.

 

“So what am I supposed to do if I don't call him?” Stiles asks.

 

“Let him come to you,” Cas surprises everyone with his answer. “In the animal kingdom it's typical for male birds to put on prominent mating displays before they couple with the females. You should let this Derek display his plumage for you.”

 

Stiles doesn't even object to being called the girl-peacock. He's perfectly happy to pea-hen around if it means he gets to stroke Derek's plumage.

 

“That way he will feel as though he's won a great prize when you finally relent and let him breed you.”

 

Sam pulls his patented “Cas is so fucking weird” face while Dean laughs.

 

“The man speaks the truth.” Dean pulls into the gravel parking lot and kills the engine. “Alright, ice cream time. Good god I hope this place has bacon cheeseburgers.”

 

They do, and Dean stands before the grill like a man saved. Sam and Stiles head straight for the ice cream line, helping Jody wrangle everyone into a line as they file their way down and place their orders. When he and Sam finally make it to the counter, Stiles is too entranced by the flavor options to notice that Sam has forgotten how to speak.

 

“What can I get you?” The pretty blonde girl behind the counter says to Sam for the third time. Sam is just staring at her like a deer in headlights, blushing and blinking his eyes. Stiles has totally been there, so he graciously steps in.

 

“We'll both have strawberry cones, please.” She nods at him and starts scooping. “I'm Stiles, and this is my friend Sam.” She hands them each a cone and smiles.

 

“I'm Jo.” Stiles passes Sam his cone and gives him a little kick to wake him up.

 

“Uh, hi.” Sam keeps staring as Stiles hustles him over to a table, where he sits and stares some more. “I think Sammy's got a little crush,” Dean says teasingly over his mouthful of cheeseburger. “Bet she's got a good grip, too.”

 

Sam breaks his gaze to punch Dean's shoulder as his brother winks at him. They joke around for a while, enjoying the junk food and the change of scenery until Cas stops and widens his eyes, french fry halfway to his mouth.

 

“Ooh, plumage,” he says deeply, cocking an eyebrow at Stiles before directing his eyes to the door.

 

Much like the s'mores seduction, having Derek Hale walk in while he's got an ice cream cone in his mouth is not nearly as hot as it's supposed to be. Stiles manages to bite his tongue, which is really a feat when you consider than you don't actually bite ice cream.

 

“That him?” Dean looks Derek over like he's assessing a car.

 

“Yep, that's him.” Derek hasn't seen him yet, but Stiles already feels frozen in place like one of those hypnotized bunny rabbits before a snake. Plumage, just show him your plumage, wait, fuck, he's the one with the plumes, what does the pea-hen do?

 

“What does the pea-hen do?” Stiles whispers to Cas, who smiles and leans in. “Well, I believe they lift their tail feathers and-”

 

“Just play it cool,” Dean says, leaning back in his chair and looking menacing. Stiles isn't really sure how that's supposed to help him get laid, but he's not the expert here.

 

Stiles manages to play it cool for about 0.02 seconds before Derek catches sight of him and smiles gamely, raising an eyebrow and nodding hello. Would his eyebrows tickle against Stiles' thighs while he licked his-

 

“He is very masculine,” Cas stage-whispers, nodding approvingly. “And he has very elegant hands.” Dean raises his “Cas being Cas” eyebrows and snorts in agreement as Derek picks up a bag of food from the grill counter and turns to head towards the tables.

 

“And he's coming over here,” Sam says matter-of-factly, immediately turning his attention back to Jo. Plumage, eyebrows, cheekbones and all are, indeed, heading directly towards Stiles, whose jack-rabbiting heartbeat only makes him feel like more of a helpless and desperately horny forest creature.

 

“Hey,” Derek says, nodding respectfully at Dean and Cas with that cool-guy head-nod that no one ever does to Stiles. Seriously, could they just smell each other or something? Derek spares Sam a passing glance, which is fine because Sam is apparently too busy picking out Jo's wedding dress in his head to notice. Clearly Dean got all the gay in that family. Stiles opts for a silent and appropriately awkward head movement, fearing that any attempt at “Hi” would wind up like one of those internet photos of startled cats that read “oh hai there.”

 

“I've got that part that Bobby needed, why don't you come pick it up before you head back?” Derek says directly to Stiles, who still looks back and forth between Cas and Dean just to be sure.

 

“Me?” Stiles blurts out before he remembers that he's mister play-it-cool-plumage-inspector. “Oh, yeah, sure, I'll, uh, drop by if I have time.”

 

“Ok, we're right up the road.” Derek smiles and cool-guy-head-nods at Dean and Cas. Stiles doesn't get a head nod but he gets a raking-over by Derek's eyes that makes him feel like somebody owes somebody dinner and a movie. He makes a satisfied face and heads out the door.

 

“He seems like a douche,” Dean grumbles, just as Cas says, “He seems like a man of appetite.” Dean glares at Cas and goes back to his burger. Sam has moved on to floral arrangements and last-name-hyphenation by the look of him. Stiles glances over at Jo, who keeps looking up from the ice cream counter and blushing slightly every time she catches Sam staring at her.

 

Stiles waits until Dean and Cas finish their food. While he'd had plans of attacking some curly fries after he had his ice cream (eating dessert first still gave Stiles a rebellious thrill), his appetite for food is gone. There's no room left for anything in his stomach between the butterflies and the knots it's tying itself into.

 

“You got this, man,” Dean claps a hand over his shoulder. “Remember, let him come to you.” Stiles nods and swallows so nervously he's sure Derek and perhaps even the residents of Alpha Centauri hear it. He straightens himself to his full 5'11” and smooths his shirt down, grateful that he at least managed to avoid getting any ice cream on it. “You can do this, Stilinski,” he whispers to himself in his secret pre-game mirror pep-talk voice. “You are plume-worthy.”

 

“Tail feathers!” Cas yells. Stiles bites his lip and heads out the door, trying to shake his tail feathers without tripping over his own two feet. Hale's Hardware is easy to find, although not so easy to get into as Stiles tugs at the door handle. It takes him a few tries to realize that he has to press the latch down first, because obviously it's one of those crazy old-fashioned doors like he's in some wild west recreational village.

 

And of course there's a bell, announcing his entrance and startling him into a half-crouch spazz attack just as Derek walks out. Stiles does his best to recover and shift himself into his relaxed-sexy-lemme-see-your-plumage-baby posture, hooking his thumbs through the belt-loops of his cargo shorts and slouching sexily.

 

“Hey.” Stiles tries to sound totally cool and disinterested, coming out somewhere halfway between lukewarm and I-swear-I'm-done-with-puberty squeaky.

 

“Hey.” Derek smiles at him like he's incredibly amused, leaning back against the glass counter and crossing his arms over his chest.

 

“So, uh,” let him come to you, tail feathers, “you got that part.” Stiles looks around the store like he knows what more than 2% of the items in front of him are for.

 

“Yeah,” Derek squints his eyes like he's trying to remember something, “I do. It's, uh, right over here.” Smirking is the only way Stiles can describe his facial expression, if smirking entails making Stiles' skin feel all pin-prickly and reminding him that baggy shorts were an excellent wardrobe choice this morning.

 

Derek pushes off from the counter with the sort of graceful ease that Stiles has stopped even attempting, because it usually ends with things breaking. He nods his head at Stiles to follow him as he ducks around an aisle in the back of the store.

 

Stiles quickly looks around to make sure there's no one else that Derek could have been summoning, pinching himself to double check that he is, in fact, awake and won't be coming to any second with a wet mess in his fleecy Mets pajama pants. Assured on both counts, Stiles turns the bend of the aisle and makes it halfway down before Derek is all up on him.

 

That's really the only way to describe it, and if Stiles' dick had hands it would be clapping them together and waving them over its head. Stiles' own hands are just sort of awkwardly spasming, unsure what to do with this onslaught of attention. His brain is, as usual, the last thing to catch up and finally realize that Derek is kissing him.

 

Derek is kissing him. Derek Hale and his eyebrows and his plumage are pressed up against Stiles so hard his back is digging into the metal brackets of the shelves behind him. Derek's soft, hot mouth is molded against his, his tongue slowly parting Stiles' lips. Stiles sighs like every romance-novel heroine he has never read about in Scott's mom's bathroom a thousand times, letting his mouth fall open as Derek's tongue sweeps across his. He kisses soft but deadly, with the slow claiming of an animal stalking its prey. Stiles has never been so happy to feel like he's on the bottom of the food chain, especially when Derek runs his hand up Stiles' arm and clamps it around Stiles' neck.

 

“I lied,” Derek says huskily, so close to Stiles that he can feel his lips moving against his own. “I don't have a part for Bobby.” He runs his fingers through Stiles' hair, scratching his nails right at the base of Stiles' skull. “Just wanted to get you alone.” Derek drags his nails down against Stiles' neck, making him completely forget his clever rejoinder about parts and having them and leaving Stiles a quivering mess as he leans in and kisses him again, rougher this time. Scott used to have this dog that would shake its leg if you rubbed this spot behind its ear, and Stiles can totally relate as Derek keeps doing that scratchy thing to his neck.

 

“I don't think your friend likes me,” Derek whispers against his ear, although Stiles barely hears it over the sound of his own moan as Derek runs his other hand around Stiles' back, tracing his fingers over Stiles' t-shirt. “My, what, ungh,” Stiles attempts to answer and gives up somewhere between Derek pulling his t-shirt up and Derek sliding his hand underneath.

 

“Your friend, the one with the freckles,” Derek kisses him, licking hot and strong into his mouth, “and those juicy, red, cocksucking lips.” Derek punctuates every word of that with a hot sweep of his tongue over Stiles' lips. He sucks Stiles' bottom lip into his mouth and nips it, gently enough that it doesn't hurt so much as set off fireworks in Stiles' pants.

 

“He's not the only one, though, is he?” Derek runs his finger in a lazy trail up Stiles' neck, across his jaw and up his chin before tracing over the bow-curve of Stiles' lips to illustrate his point. Stiles isn't really expected to speak, right? The only thing he can concentrate on is how badly he wants to purse his apparently-cocksucking lips out and suck Derek's finger right inside.

 

“Are you fucking him?” Derek growls and his finger does indeed wind up inside Stiles' mouth, more from the force of Stiles' jaw hitting the ground with disbelief than any planned finger-sucking sexy times. Stiles' half-laughs, half-croaks in surprise.

 

“What?! No, are you, no, oh my god, no...” It's really hard to say “no” when Derek leans in closer and presses his leg in between Stiles', rubbing the groove of his hip against Stiles' I-am-way-too-turned-on-to-feel-embarrassed-right-now raging hard-on. All that does is make Stiles want to scream, “Yes, yes, yes,” preferably while fist-pumping the air with pure joy.

 

“Good.” Derek manages to make it sound like a threat and a reward all at the same time. “Can you sneak out tonight?” He trails his fingertips up Stiles' back as Stiles arches into it like a cat, and there may be actual purring when he drags his nails back down.

 

Stiles would re-enact the Dillinger Escape Plan if it meant more of this. “Yeah, I can, oh, god,” Stiles moans as Derek sucks Stiles' earlobe in between his teeth while he slides his hand down the back of Stiles' shorts, running his finger back and forth over the elastic of Stiles' boxers.

 

“Eleven, top of the driveway,” Derek breathes against his ear. “And then I'm gonna-”

 

The doorbell hits them both like a jolt, Derek jumping back to the other side of the aisle while Stiles clings to the shelf and his dignity. Derek takes a deep breath through his nose and draws his eyebrows together, shooting Stiles a look that pretty much screams “get out of here.”

 

Stiles feels his heart sink a little bit. Is this gonna be some hot girlfriend or swaggering hunk of boyfriend stopping by to say hello? Stiles isn't too good to be the other woman, if he's being honest with himself, but it still kind of sucks. He tries to collect himself and make a graceful exit as Derek walks down the aisle into the main part of the store.

 

A graceful exit with a boner and the inherent awkwardness of being himself is pretty much impossible. Hopefully Derek's mystery visitor will think Stiles spends a lot of time on horseback, or, more likely, will be too busy being all hot and cute to even notice that Stiles is doing the half-limp of the wholly-hard. Stiles sighs and turns the corner, steeling himself for _jesus fucking christ_.

 

Stiles was raised to be a nice kid. Old ladies love him, he always helps when he sees someone with too many grocery bags, and he definitely isn't the kind of person who recoils with horror when he sees a man with horrible burn scars on his face. Except for, you know, how he literally just recoiled in horror from a man with horrible burn scars on his face.

 

 _Now that's what an Old Man Hale looks like_ , Stiles thinks as he tries to regain his composure. Stiles tries desperately not to look at the taut, webbed skin running up the side of the older man's face, just to worry that he's offending him more by pointedly _not_ looking.

 

“Did my nephew help you find what you were looking for?” he asks evenly, arms crossed over his chest as he looks at Derek. Stiles kind of knows how the old guy's scars must feel, because Derek is looking everywhere in the store except at the modest amount of space Stiles is occupying.

 

“Yep, yessiree, indeedy, thanks for the, uh, helping me with that thing,” Stiles extemporizes. He feels like he's buzzing with a million emotions at once: relief that he isn't Derek's jezebel, embarrassment at his reaction to Derek's uncle, white-hot arousal still lingering in his veins from getting mauled by a romance novel pin-up boy, all of it overlaid with an unsettling fear that has nothing to do with the elder Hale's grotesque appearance. Derek seems genuinely afraid of him, which cannot mean anything good for Stiles.

 

“Hope you'll come back soon,” and Stiles can't help but mentally pin “said the spider to the fly” onto that statement. Stiles gives him a forced smile and heads for the door, which is just as hard to open on the way out as it was on the way in. When he finally gets the latch to open, Stiles takes a quick look over his shoulder and rolls his eyes in his best “little old me” expression. Old Man Hale gives him a totally fucking creepy smile that doesn't reach his eyes, while Derek looks at him from behind the counter and quickly, so fast that Stiles isn't convinced that he didn't imagine it, winks at him.

 

“Plumage?” Cas says dramatically as Stiles folds himself into the back seat. Dean and Sam turn back to look at him. Stiles just laughs and leans his head back against the seat.

 

“Guys,” he says, “I think I'm getting some tail feathers tonight.”

 

*

 

“Get in.”

 

Derek driving a muscle car is only slightly less surprising than Derek being late. Stiles opens the door of the Camaro and slides into the passenger seat, checking the camp driveway one last time to make sure no one sees him. Not that he needs to worry. He's sure Dean will do a good job covering for him.

 

“Hi, Stiles.” The way Derek says it reminds Stiles of Dean's habit of holding a sandwich in front of his mouth and murmuring, “Hello, gorgeous.”

 

Derek drives exactly like Stiles had imagined, and after every terrifying but precise turn Stiles expects Derek to turn to him and nonchalantly say, “Oh yeah, Steve McQueen showed me that.”

 

They pull up to a campsite a few miles north of Eagle Lake. “I used to come here with my folks,” Derek says as they settle down at a picnic table. The moon is bright enough that they don't need flashlights, although Stiles is apparently the only one who brought one.

 

“Before you moved?” Stiles knows about 12 facts when it comes to Derek, number 6 of which is that he just moved back from New York. The fact that Derek is a complete stranger should make him feel much more nervous than he is about being out in the middle of a deserted campsite in the middle of the night with him.

 

“Before they died.” Derek taps his fingers against the wooden table. Stiles really needs to start finding other things to have in common with new acquaintances.

 

“My, uh, my mom's dead.” Stiles scratches the back of his neck. “Just me and my Dad.” So we've got that in common, Stiles thinks, although it doesn't seem like the right thing to say.

 

“My uncle's the only one left.” Derek sighs. “Look, I'm sorry about today, at the store. I didn't … I really just wanted to ask you out, but I got a little … carried away.” It must be the poor lighting that's causing it, because Stiles cannot comprehend the idea of Derek looking sheepish.

 

“No apology needed,” Stiles says. “And you did ask me out. See, us, here?” Stiles gestures around at the empty campsite. “We're out.”

 

Derek laughs softly, and Stiles smiles.

 

“Oh, I forgot, I brought you something.” Derek gets up and goes to the car, rifling around in the back seat and coming back with a plastic bag. He dumps the contents out on the picnic table.

 

Stiles picks up the plastic package and smiles. “Marshmallows?”

 

Derek shrugs. “Thought you might want something sweet.” If Stiles were better at this whole flirting thing he'd have a better answer than, “Yeah, ok,” but that's all he's got. Stiles pulls a puffy sweet out of the bag. “Are we gonna toast them?” Stiles has already fast-forwarded to the fire-side roll in the hay he's getting tonight if it kills him. “We could build a fire.”

 

“Oh, shit, I forgot,” Derek says ruefully, “you're supposed to toast them. Fuck.” He looks up at the sky like he's telling the time, which, who knows, he might be able to do that, too. “I think it's too late to go hunting for kindling.” Derek looks tremendously disappointed, which is so sweet Stiles can't believe it.

 

“Oh, it's ok,” Stiles back-tracks, “they're still good raw, see?” He stuffs a marshmallow in his mouth and chews noisily, with loud, contented sighs. Derek chuckles and tilts his head.

 

“Fuck,” Derek says softly, and Stiles endeavors to swallow his mouthful of sugar before he responds. “Wassit?” Not an entirely successful endeavor, then.

 

“You're just …” Derek sighs and chews on his lip. Stiles can sense that he's holding back, although he can't imagine what Derek's waiting for. Did Stiles leave his flashing neon “please have sex with me dear god please” sign back in his cabin? Because he certainly remembered to bring the four varieties of condoms Dean had pressed on him, along with half of a really embarrassing conversation about prep work that Stiles had squirmed out of.

 

Stiles takes a deep breath and figures that if there's ever a time for tail-feathers, it's now.

 

“Just what?” Stiles inches himself closer to Derek. “Sweet?” He picks up another marshmallow and bites it in half, thanking whatever deity is in charge of seduction that he doesn't fall off the bench or choke on it halfway through.

 

Derek leans in closer as Stiles closes the small space remaining between them. Derek might not like sweets, but he sure puts on a good show as Stiles brings the half-eaten marshmallow to his lips. Stiles shivers as Derek sucks it into his mouth, taking Stiles' fingers right along with it.

 

“Jesus,” Derek murmurs around his fingers, rolling his tongue along the pad of Stiles' index finger. Their knees are pressed together on the bench, making the angle difficult as Stiles leans in. He gathers his courage and goes for it anyway.

 

Derek inhales sharply as Stiles brings his lips to Derek's, running his tongue along the line of his own finger into Derek's mouth. It's sweet and sticky, warm and wet and welcoming as Derek opens his mouth at the gentle tug of Stiles' fingers. Stiles tentatively places his hand on Derek's neck, pulling him in closer as Stiles arches his tongue to sweep it forward.

 

For a moment Stiles panics when his tongue meets Derek's and finds it laying still. Did he do something wrong? Derek feels tense where Stiles is touching him, and he hasn't laid a hand on Stiles yet, and what happened to mister grabby-hands jump-Stiles-in-the-hardware-store from before? And what is that noise?

 

Somewhere between “oh god how did I fuck this up” and “that's definitely a growl,” Stiles stops asking questions and starts gasping as Derek strikes. That's the only way to describe it, the way he goes from complete stillness to grabbing Stiles by the literal seat of his pants and pulling him onto his lap in a second.

 

Stiles isn't exactly a hulking brute but he's not tiny, which makes the way Derek manhandles him like he's a puppy even hotter. He's so strong, and he's fucking _growling_ , low and rumbling against Stiles' chest as he presses his tongue in to claim Stiles' mouth in the name of Hale. Derek certainly isn't holding back anymore, tugging Stiles' hoodie off and running his hands underneath Stiles' t-shirt without breaking their kiss. Stiles can't even keep track of where Derek's hands are after a while, lust-lit trails burning over his chest and back wherever Derek touches him.

 

“Fuck, Stiles,” Derek rasps against his ear, hot tongue tracing up the shell of it and making Stiles shiver. “You smell so fucking good,” gets mumbled out against his neck, which, ok, Stiles has been told worse things in his life.

 

Derek smells good, too, like woodsmoke and leather and salt. Stiles runs his hand up Derek's neck to pull him closer as Derek gives him what will surely be a spectacular hickey tomorrow. His hair is softer than Stiles expected, spiky and thick in his fingers. Stiles wriggles himself in closer and moans when he feels Derek's cock pressing against him.

 

Leaning his head back down for another kiss, Stiles circles his hips to grind himself against Derek. Clearly he's doing something right. Derek's satisfied growl thrums through his chest as Derek plants a firm hand on Stiles' ass and pushes, holding him in place as Derek cants his hips up to rock himself harder into Stiles' crotch.

 

Stiles can't help the needy little sounds running out of his mouth, especially when Derek latches onto his collar bone and leaves a trail of hot breath and sharp, teasing bites. Stiles can feel his dick straining against his jeans, rough denim stretched taut across his spread legs straddling Derek. Not that he can see it, but he knows there's a wet spot forming through his jeans as Derek runs the pad of his thumb over Stiles' nipple, dragging it back and forth as Stiles' hips start moving of their own accord.

 

Derek lets out something like a purr against the crook of Stiles' shoulder and slides his hand down lower, leaving a trail of gooseflesh as he runs his fingers down Stiles' stomach. Derek's burning hot everywhere they meet, warmth radiating from his palm as he settles it over Stiles' hard-on, skin fever-hot under Stiles' hands on his shoulders as Stiles slips a hand down his t-shirt.

 

“Oh, god,” Stiles groans as Derek's hand cups against him, fingers scratching against the denim covering Stiles' balls as he presses the heel of his hand into Stiles' dick. Derek's mouth is back at Stiles' neck, kneading the skin between his teeth at the same rhythm his hand is grinding against Stiles' aching-hard cock. Stiles can feel his nuts drawing tight with every press of Derek's palm, and there's no way he's going to keep it together if Derek keeps working that spot right behind the wing of Stiles' jawbone. Stiles has never been this excited about the prospect of creaming his jeans.

 

“Don't come,” Derek softly growls into his ear, because it's probably that obvious that Stiles is about to blow his load. Stiles thinks a little whimpering is perfectly excusable as Derek snatches his hand away.

 

“Not yet,” Derek licks into his ear. “Not until you're in my mouth.”

 

Derek isn't the only one making less-than-human noises as he picks Stiles up and flips him onto the picnic table in one impressive show of strength. Stiles is still trying to piece together the “you're” and “mouth” and “in” parts of that statement as Derek leans down to roughly kiss Stiles as he undoes Stiles' fly.

 

“Oh my god,” Stiles blurts out before his brain can remind him to not be a complete spazz-case, “you're gonna suck my dick.” Derek leans up and looks down at him, smirk on his face just visible in the moonlight. “Yeah,” Derek says slowly, hooking his fingers into Stiles' waistband at either hip, “I am.” Derek leans back down and sucks Stiles' earlobe in between his teeth, rolling it around a few times before he whispers, “And a few other things.”

 

Stiles kicks his sneakers off and hears them land with a soft thud on the bark-mulch of the campsite. Derek bites along the curve of Stiles' jaw as he slides his fingers past Stiles' jeans and into the elastic waistband of his boxers, tugging them both down roughly as Stiles lifts his hips to help.

 

The air hitting his dick feels like an icy jolt, chilled night air making the head of it tingle where he's leaking out precome. Stiles' pants are half-way down his thighs when Derek mumbles out against his belly button, “Oh, shit.” Derek grabs a handful of Stiles' jeans and holds him up in mid-air while his other hand grasps blindly at the bench of the picnic table, coming back up with Stiles' hoodie. He balls it up and shoves it under Stiles before letting him go.

 

“Don't want you getting splinters,” Derek says matter-of-factly as Stiles' bare ass settles down on the fleecy lining of his sweatshirt. He has to admit it's better than the bare table. “Thanks,” Stiles lets out weakly, quickly dissolving into a grunt of surprise as Derek tugs one leg of his pants off. The other one hangs forgotten off of Stiles' left foot as Derek grasps Stiles' bare leg right below the knee and pushes it up to his chest.

 

Stiles is feeling cold air in places he's never felt it before. He's exposed, and vulnerable, and a host of other things that should make him feel nervous, but all Stiles can really feel is Derek's mouth on him, running hot and wet down his stomach to breathe a huff of hot air against his pubes.

 

Stiles' dick is merrily standing up at attention and ready to go, but Derek ignores it for now, butting it out of the way with his chin as he nuzzles against the light thatch of curly hairs trailing down from Stiles' navel. Each deep, needy breath leaves pin-pricks on Stiles' skin as Derek breathes him in, mouthing over him as he runs his lips down the juncture of Stiles' hip until he burrows his nose into Stiles' balls.

 

“Oh jesus _fuck_ ,” Stiles moans as Derek opens his mouth and sucks, filthy-wet sound of it better than all of the porn Stiles has ever watched put together. Derek trades one for the other, back and forth until Stiles can feel the wet pool of his own excitement staining his t-shirt and chilling in the air.

 

Stiles had seen this in porn, sure, but he'd never really seen the point of it. Wouldn't you rather have someone give you a blowjob? To be fair, his experience with either was limited to his vivid imagination and manual dexterity, but he'd never, in his dirtiest, filthiest dreams, imagined that it would feel like this. His blood feels like it's running hot and cold, like the slightest touch to his cock would send him shooting off like the fourth of July. Each throb of his dick gets the anticipation building in his gut until he can't remember anything else.

 

Derek licks a broad swipe up the seam of Stiles' sac, hot spit leaving a burning trail that sinks into Stiles' spine with each pass of Derek's tongue. Stiles is happy to hold his own leg up as Derek kitten-licks across his taint, moving lower and lower until Stiles starts to shake, because there's no way he's going to do that, oh god, yes he is, _oh my god_.

 

“Ohmygodohmygodohmygod,” Stiles' tongue feels too thick for his mouth as he tries to moan, his hips moving before the rest of him can even catch up. Derek has a hand on either side of his ass, burning into Stiles' skin as he presses and pulls Stiles open, exposing him in a way that should probably make Stiles feel self-conscious. Instead Stiles just whines and rocks his hips up, chasing the contact of Derek's lips breathing hot against his hole.

 

“So fucking good,” Derek murmurs before he pulls away and spits into his hand, wet and noisy and about a million times hotter than anything Stiles has ever heard. Derek hesitates for a split-second, just watching as Stiles writhes, because Stiles will do anything to get Derek's mouth back there, including beg. “Fuck, Derek, please,” and the pitch of his voice is about an octave higher than he'd like but it seems to do the trick.

 

Stiles needs to get used to the striking thing, because Derek is apparently a fucking expert at it. One second Stiles is whining at the loss of contact and desperately seeking Derek's mouth, and the next he's speaking in tongues as Derek plants his lips flush with Stiles' rim and wraps a spit-wet hand around his dick. It's just too fucking much, the probing heat of Derek's tongue inside him matched perfectly with each stroke of his hand. Muscles Stiles has never given a second thought to flex and seize with each lap of Derek's tongue, clenching each time Derek points his tongue to dip into him just to draw it out and roll it over the outer skin of his hole with quick little curls that make Stiles' connective tissue dissolve into sizzling need in his veins.

 

Derek strokes him slowly but surely, alternating his firm grip on Stiles' cock with teasing little swipes of his thumb over the wet slit. He picks up the pace and starts to stroke Stiles faster, pressing his free thumb against the side of Stiles' hole to work his tongue in a little deeper. Stiles arches his back off the picnic table as he feels his balls start to draw up, pressure building at the base of his spine as he pumps his hips up into every stroke of Derek's hand. There's no way he can stand this for much longer.

 

“Um, I think, yeah, I'm gonna, oh fuck fuck _fuck_ ,” Stiles neck snaps back against the rough wood, crest of his orgasm rising in him as Derek pulls his mouth away from his hole just to wrap his lips around the head of Stiles' dick as he strokes him fast and hard. Stiles keens out his release as he digs his fingers into the sides of the table, hips rising up as far they can go as he comes in Derek's mouth.

 

Stiles isn't sure if the stars he's seeing are the actual ones in the sky or the figurative ones behind his eyes, but they go flying as Derek grips his shoulder and pulls him to sit up. Derek's mouth tastes salty and dirty-hot as he kisses Stiles, his tongue rough and insistent as he pulls Stiles close to him. Stiles blesses his forethought as the sweatshirt smoothes the way, keeping his ass de-splintered as Derek pulls him to the edge of the table.

 

“Taste so fucking good,” Derek groans against his neck, licking and biting at the skin beneath his ear as he grabs Stiles by the ass and pulls him in to slot his hard cock against the crook of Stiles' thigh.

 

Stiles has no idea when Derek took his dick out of his jeans, but clearly the guy thinks of everything. Stiles probably couldn't make it out, what with the poor lighting and the fact that his eyes can barely focus after coming so hard, but he doesn't need to see Derek's cock when he can feel it, big and hard and hot against him as Stiles angles his leg to catch it.

 

Derek growls appreciatively and thrusts into him, one hand holding Stiles' leg in place as the other roams through his hair. They're kissing so hard Stiles can taste the ferric tang of his own blood in his mouth, his swollen lips caught between a set of teeth that get more aggressive with each mounting buck of his hips. Stiles can feel Derek's nails digging into his hip, holding him still as Derek ruts into him faster and faster.

 

He won't notice that Derek has broken his skin until later, when he presses his own fingers into the sharp scratches at his hip as he jerks off in the camp shower. All Stiles can feel right now is the deep, primal growl rolling through Derek's chest as he buries his face in Stiles' neck and shoots hot and wet over his hip.

 

Stiles is so busy kissing Derek back that he barely notices Derek's palm pressing over the sticky mess running down his hip, rubbing it into his skin as Derek kisses him softly. Instead Stiles just sighs contentedly and rests his head on Derek's massive shoulder.

 

“Next time, you're doing that in my mouth.”

*

  
*

Stiles isn't sure what it says about him that he barely bats an eye when Dean tackles him from behind while he makes his way down the driveway. All Stiles knows is that his tail-feathers just got ruffled, he's got cocksucking lips and he smells good. Everything else just seems secondary.

 

“We want details,” Dean says, half-dragging Stiles down to the storage shed full of life preservers.

 

“Young Stilinski,” Cas intones dramatically, holding the flashlight under his face like he's telling a ghost story, “is your maidenhead still intact?” He hands Stiles a beer and blinks his eyes expectantly.

 

“Yeah,” Stiles shrugs, knocking back a luke-warm beer. Dean and Cas both lean forward as Stiles sits back on the stack of suspicious-smelling lifejackets. “But barely.”

 

Stiles knows it isn't gentlemanly to kiss and tell, but that doesn't stop him from sharing all the juicy details with Dean and Cas.

 

“Dude, rim-shot,” Dean smirks, miming a basketball dunk after Stiles tells him about Derek's god-given national treasure of a tongue. “Cas likes it when -”

 

All three of them jump slightly as they hear someone pounding on the side of the shed.

 

“For the love of god, I hope no one's naked,” Jody yells, peering out from behind her hand as Stiles scrambles to hide his beer. Jody crosses her arms over her chest and looks squarely at all three of them. “Well at least you're just drinking this time,” Jody says pointedly to Dean, who has the good sense to look bashful.

 

“Anyway, Dean, Bobby needs to talk to you. Cas, make sure Stiles gets back to his cabin.” Jody narrows her eyes at Stiles. “And make sure he stays there.”

 

Stiles ducks his head and hunches his shoulders in his “invisible to grown-ups” pose. Jody nods, apparently satisfied with their contrition, and leaves with a dramatic sigh.

 

“Is everything ok?” Stiles asks as they make their way from the lakefront back to the cabins. “Why would Bobby want to talk to you this late?”

 

Dean gives him a forced smile. “I'm sure it's nothing, probably got a raccoon in the washing machine again.” He turns to head to the lodge as Stiles mutters, “Again?” to himself.

 

Cas drops him off at cabin 5 with a distracted “Goodnight.” He looks worried, and Stiles would be a lot more concerned if he had anything other than the greatest hits of Derek's mouth running through his head right now.

 

Stiles curls up with his tail feathers and wonders how soon he can see Derek again.

 

*

The shower cabin was surely invented by someone with a taste for humiliation, or at the very least a religious belief in the purgative effects of sudden cold showers. There were twelve shower spigots, exactly three of which consistently delivered warm water. The others alternated between skin-boiling hot and ice-cold so quickly Stiles' body didn't even get a chance to blend the two into some semblance of comfort.

 

Despite getting four hours of sleep, Stiles had woken up with the sunrise feeling like the king of the world. He also felt like he could open his own camp with the tent he was pitching between his legs, wet spot of precome already forming on his pajama pants.

 

Dean's bed is empty, which is odd but not unheard of. Maybe he and Cas passed out by the lake again.

 

The folded towel held in front of his crotch does a sufficient job of hiding his morning wood, which is enthusiastically greeting the day as Stiles grabs his shampoo/body wash (no drop the soap jokes for Stiles, no sir) and heads to the shower cabin.

 

It's early enough that he's the only one there. Stiles blesses the universal desire of boys to sleep in and takes the second spout from the left, which he's nicknamed “Old Reliable.” The lukewarm water could be hotter, but at least he can count on it to remain steady as he showers.

 

Stiles lather-rinse-repeats in under three minutes, a habit inescapable from lacrosse practice. Looking out the slatted windows at the top of the walls, Stiles squints at the light and decides that it's still early enough that he can count on some solitude. He's going to need it.

 

While he'd flagged down to half-hard during soap-time, it's the work of a few seconds and some steady pulls of his hand to get himself back to full mast. Stiles closes his eyes and slowly strokes himself, twisting his wrist over the head every few turns. His other hand snakes down over his stomach, fingertips trailing along the crease of his thigh.

 

Stiles doesn't generally give his balls a whole lot of attention when he's having “alone time,” but clearly he's been neglecting a whole stretch of valuable downstairs real estate. He slides a sudsy finger behind his balls, tracing over the furrowed skin of his hole and shuddering. While Stiles has imagined himself taking it up the ass about a zillion times, he's never felt the need to do much more than imagine. Until now, when he can run his finger around that tight little furl of muscle and remember every lapping, perfect swipe of Derek's tongue.

 

He's still got enough soap on him to slick the way as he presses the pad of his finger into himself, whistling out a soft sound as it sinks in easier than he'd expected. It's strange, filling and foreign and alien more than anything. His skin goes goosebumpy under the lukewarm water as he crooks his finger, testing his limits and finding a nice rhythm when he draws it out past the second knuckle and sinks it back inside in time with his strokes on his cock.

 

Stiles is pretty sure Derek's fingers are thicker than his, and Stiles knows for a fact that his cock is thick as fuck and holy shit what'll _that_ feel like? He imagines the blunt press of Derek's cockhead against him, insistent and patient all at once as Derek breathes against his neck and growls out his need for Stiles, as he bears down and stretches Stiles out until...

 

“Oh,” Stiles sighs out in genuine surprise, jumping at the unexpected clench of his inner muscles around his finger as he comes. He bites his lip and squeezes out the last milky drop before he watches it all wash down the drain as he catches his breath. Yeah, he'd definitely been missing out on some good stuff.

 

He feels tender and more sensitive as he withdraws his finger, squirting a new dollop of shower gel onto his hand and giving himself one last go-over. He'd learned the hard way not to assume he was spunk-free just because he was in the shower. And it feels good, in a way Stiles has never really bothered to think about, this affectionate scrubbing of himself while his orgasm dies down and leaves him quiet and settled for a few precious moments.

 

Stiles feels like little cartoon bluebirds should be merrily chirping a tune at him as he slides one hand down his side, like the sun is shining just for him and surely anything is possible in this best of all worlds. The intrusion of the uncomfortable sensation he feels as he runs his hand down his hip is jolting, so out of place with the walking on sunshine vibe whistling off the cabin walls.

 

Stiles isn't exactly a graceful ballerina but he doesn't remember bumping into anything. _Except Derek's dick_ , he thinks, and jesus, it's like he can't turn off the dirty jokes in his head even if he tries. He shakes his head and cranes his neck awkwardly to get a better look at his hip, twisting his waist and narrowing his eyes.

 

His hand lines up perfectly with five crescent-shaped bruises, a purplish mark slatting under each pale half-moon of his fingernail. Stiles presses tentatively, hissing at the discomfort and the jolt of recognition that rushes through him and settles down somewhere deep in his gut. _Derek's_. Stiles draws in a deep breath and closes his eyes, pressing against the tender flesh harder this time, licking his lips as he feels his dick start to chub up again.

 

Praying that Old Reliable doesn't fail him now, Stiles sighs under the warm water and wraps a hand around himself for round two.

 

Hoping that the red flush on his face will be taken for the lasting effects of a good, hot shower and not emptying his balls down the drain twice in a row, Stiles quietly sneaks back into his cabin and pulls on shorts and a t-shirt. He checks his watch – still a whole hour before the wake-up bell. The bell was just the usual dinner bell accompanied by Bobby banging on the doors and yelling until everybody was up.

 

Stiles feels his stomach rumble. They won't eat for another hour and a half, and Stiles figures he needs some protein pretty desperately with the sheer volume of spunk he's lost in the last 24 hours.

 

If he sneaks into the kitchen he can probably scrounge up some sliced turkey. Maybe even a marshmallow or two.

 

Thinking about marshmallows gets Stiles thinking about Derek. Stiles knows he shouldn't call him, or find some excuse to go into town and stop by the hardware store. Dean and Cas would tell him to preen his feathers or some shit, or bat his eyelashes and play hard to get. The problem is that Stiles feels so very easy to get, so incredibly, willingly, desperate to be gotten that his heart skip-thumps in his chest just thinking about the sound of Derek's voice. Stiles thinks of the mark on his hip, of the new ones Derek could make as he grips Stiles from behind, pulling back down onto his-

 

Fuck. He definitely needs more protein.

 

Stiles tries to will away his half-woody as he carefully opens the screen door to the back of the lodge, each coil of spring squealing softly despite his best efforts. It's still too early for Jody to be up cooking breakfast, so hopefully Stiles can steal some munchies without getting shooed away.

 

He's got his hand on the glorious package of sliced turkey when he hears the front door of the lodge slam open like a shot. He's down on the ground before the screen door slams back, clutching the turkey to his chest like a drowning man. Leaning his head back against the stainless steel base cabinet, Stiles laughs at himself for being such a spazz. Jody wasn't going to shoot him for stealing a slice of turkey or something, jesus. Stiles starts to collect himself to stand back up.

 

“Give me the gun.” Scratch that, Stiles is staying right where he is. “Don't want any of the kiddies getting scared,” Bobby continues.

 

“Well maybe they should be a little scared, Bobby,” Dean barks back in a hoarse whisper. “There's a fucking werewolf running around.”

 

Stiles hears the thud of what he assumes is a gun on the table, followed by some clicking noises that might be Bobby or Dean discharging. It makes Stiles think of his dad, which is certainly more sensible than thinking about what Dean just said because, um, werewolf? Did he really just say werewolf? Was that code for something?

 

“We should call my dad.” Stiles jumps at the intrusion into his thoughts.

 

“Dean, we don't even know for sure.” Bobby sounds exhausted and like he barely believes himself.

 

“Yes we do!” Dean yells back, lowering his voice as he continues. “We tracked one six months ago, Bobby, it's the same damned thing. Do you need me to bring Sam in to back me up on this?”

 

“Jesus, when did he start taking Sam with you?” Bobby asks. Stiles hears chairs moving around, the scrape of old wood on even older wood.

 

“Sam's old enough to hunt.” Dean says it defensively. Stiles feels the refrigerator-cool of the turkey against his chest. It doesn't do anything to slow his heart down.

 

“You boys.” Bobby sighs loud enough for Stiles to hear it. “We can't call your dad, Dean. He's … we just can't, ok?”

 

“He's on a hunt in Des Moines, Bobby, he can be here in two days, tops. The hearts, the marks … it's definitely a were, and he'll want in on that, trust me.” Dean sounds strangely excited, even if none of the shit he's saying makes any sense. Hunting? Hearts? Sam is barely old enough to make his own mac and cheese, what could he possibly be old enough to hunt?

 

“Dammit, Dean, we can't call your dad, alright? He's not in Des Moines. He's-” Things get confused for a moment as Dean talks over Bobby, something about a “shtrayga” or a “streaker.”

 

Someone's hand thuds against the table. “He's drying out, Dean, alright? He's in Rufus Turner's cabin trying to sober up. He's probably got the shakes so bad he couldn't pick up the phone if he wanted to.”

 

The quiet that follows makes Stiles even more uncomfortable than he already is. Even if he doesn't understand what's going on, he knows this isn't something he should be witnessing. He'd seen his own dad drunk far too many times to know that it wasn't something you wanted to share with some random kid at summercamp.

 

Trying to be as quiet as possible and praying that his heartbeat isn't actually audible, Stiles crouches to his feet and shuffles towards the back door. He can hear Dean saying, “So what are we supposed to do,” with a resigned tone that makes Stiles' heart twist in sympathy as he opens the door a fraction on an inch.

 

It's not until he's outside that he realizes he's still clutching two pounds of sliced turkey breast to his chest.

*

Drugs. It has to be drugs.

 

It's the only sensible explanation Stiles can come up with. Dean comes from a family of drug dealers who use totally different drug-slang than the guys on CSI and The Wire.

 

Stiles' first inclination is to go straight to Dean and ask him what's up. Being straightforward has solved many of Stiles' problems in life, at least the ones that have solutions. Some quick thinking makes him hold his tongue, though. If his drug dealers hypothesis is correct, Dean won't exactly kick up his heels at the chance to have a long chat with a sheriff's son.

 

Dean acts perfectly normal at breakfast, scarfing down cat-food-grade sausage and scrambled eggs and goosing Cas under the table when he thinks no one's looking, then doing it again when he's _sure_ everyone's looking. If Stiles hadn't spent an inordinate amount of time studying Dean's mouth for, you know, research purposes, he wouldn't notice that Dean's smile is forced, that it doesn't reach his eyes when he cracks a joke about Gabe representing the Lollipop Guild.

 

The day goes by with its usual routine, Stiles leading the kids in swimming while Gabe does his “here comes the shark” routine. The kids really do love him.

 

Danny's returning a canoe to the shed with Boyd as Stiles hangs his instructor's whistle back up in the supply shed. The camp owned exactly two whistles, and Stiles was pretty sure one of them was actually embedded around Jody's neck. As far as Stiles knew he was the only one who used the spare, but still, gross. Stiles reminds himself to get his own whistle the next time he's in town, preferably at the hardware store.

 

He'd lean over the counter, casually resting his hand on his chin as Derek looks at him with lust-filled eyes. “I bet you've got something I could wet my whistle with.” Derek would trace over the exquisite bow-curve of Stiles' mouth, trailing his finger like a hot brand across Stiles' gorgeous, perfect cocksucking lips. “I bet you could wrap those lips around something better than a whistle,” Derek would say huskily, his eyes black with lust and longing as he -

 

“Stilinskiiiiiiiiiiiiii,” Danny whistles, startling Stiles into an awkward half-turn of his torso that doesn't help get his shirt further down from where Danny's hiked it up. Stiles' wet swim trunks pull low on his hips and he realizes that Derek's scratch marks are standing out stark and red against his skin as Danny and Boyd smirk at him.

 

“I, uh, you know,” Stiles tries to act nonchalant and cool and settles somewhere around twitchy as Boyd bends down to get a closer look.

 

“Holy shit, Stiles,” Boyd whistles, “you are not leaving here until we get details.”

 

“Seriously,” Danny says, ducking his head out of the shed to make sure no one's coming. “Who's the scratcher?”

 

“Did Dean and Cas finally double-team you? Cause if they did someone owes me ten bucks,” Boyd says, holding out his palm to Danny. “Cas is totally a scratcher.”

 

“I, what, no, you had a bet?!” Stiles gapes, giving himself a moment to recover his poise and try to suppress the five-millionth hard-on of the day springing up in his trunks at the vivid mental image of Dean and Cas double-teaming him, which Stiles hasn't pictured several or a dozen or a million times, or maybe all of them with Derek telling -

 

“So who was it?” Boyd crosses his arms and leans back against the whitewashed wall, narrowing his eyes. “Ash?”

 

“I don't think Ash would scratch anything unless he was trying to keep himself from falling over while he's tripping balls,” Danny says reasonably, earning a nod from Boyd before they both look at Stiles expectantly.

 

“What, Ash, gross, seriously,” Stiles sputters, really wishing he could backtrack to the infinitely more fun image of a Derek/Dean/Cas club sandwich with Stiles as the turkey. Or the bacon.

 

“No, it was, uh,” Stiles pauses, feeling his chest swell up with an unaccustomed pride because, fuck, yeah, he totally has something to brag about. “It was Derek Hale.”

 

The looks on both their faces are truly priceless, Danny's hand clapped over his mouth and his eyes as wide as they can possibly go, Boyd's jaw hanging open like he's gonna unhinge it and swallow something whole.

 

After a couple of “Huh, pfff, whaaaa,” false starts from both of them, Danny visibly pulls himself together and asks the most important question. “Is it as big as I always imagined?”

 

Stiles blushes, and while he's pretty sure he's not the kiss and tell type, mostly because he's never had anything to kiss or tell about before, he can't help but shrug his shoulder and smirk. “Bigger.”

 

Danny claps his hands together and laughs, rolling his eyes. “Holy fuck, Stilinski, how the fuck did you pull that one off?” Danny leans over to knock his shoulder against Boyd's, turning to smile at him.

 

Boyd isn't smiling back.

 

“Dude, Derek Hale,” Danny says, gesturing at Stiles and making a disbelieving face. “Have you _seen_ him?” Stiles is going to assume Danny's referring to Derek's bodice-ripper good looks and not Stiles moon-white chicken legs currently sticking out of his shorts.

 

“Yeah, I've seen him,” Boyd says, rolling his eyes at Danny, “but I've heard things about him, too.”

 

“Like what?” Stiles is used to his mouth just running the fuck ahead of him, and he's ok with it this time because seriously, like what?

 

“I don't know, just old stories people used to tell around here, things my mom said.” Boyd had lived in nearby Susanville his whole life, where his Mom worked as a corrections officer. Stiles hadn't met Boyd's mom but he could imagine she was scary as fuck.

 

“They have a history, the Hales. That creepy uncle of Derek's, you know where he got all those scars? Crazy fire, burned down his house and killed almost his entire family. Except Derek and his sister, who just happened,” Boyd gives Stiles a pointed look, “to be out that day. Then Derek disappears with her and no one hears anything until he shows back up here.”

 

“Oh.” Stiles is imagining losing his entire family like that. Losing his mom had been hard enough, he can't even imagine what Derek has been through.

 

“And there's other things,” Boyd says, lowering his voice and leaning in. “My mom heard a lot of stories at the CCC. I overheard her telling my aunt that the Hales were cursed, like some genetic thing or something. Bad blood, that's what she said. Some of them even come out wrong.”

 

Boyd swallows thickly and darts his eyes around the shed. “My aunt, she's a nurse at the hospital up here. She said she was there when they delivered a Hale baby, some emergency case that got brought in from a car accident. She said it was a _monster_.”

 

“Oh my god, Boyd.” Danny smacks his shoulder and rolls his eyes at Stiles. “You're just jealous you're not getting up on that monster Hale cock like Stilinski here.”

 

“Hey, I'm just telling you what I've heard. I'd just,” Boyd chews his lip and looks at Stiles. “Just be careful, ok?”

 

Danny gives him a congratulatory clap on the shoulder and heads out with Boyd, leaving Stiles alone with his whistle and his thoughts.

 

It was just a weird coincidence, right? Seriously, a _monster_? It was probably some cleft-palate totally sad baby deformity or something, that was all. Stiles unconsciously scratches at the marks on his hip, stilling his hand and feeling something queasy in his stomach when he realizes what he's doing. Dean and Bobby's conversation echoes through his mind.

 

Shaking his head, he gets up from the stacked lifejackets and heads back outside. It's not like Derek was a _werewolf_ , for fuck's sake.

 

Stiles heads to the showers to strip out of his wet trunks, and possibly spend a little time working out the logistics of triple-teaming.

 

*

Scott has a habit of sneaking into Stiles' window at night when he wants to talk. Stiles has gotten pretty used to it, barely batting an eye as Scott sinks down next to him and starts blabbing about whatever's bothering him.

 

So it isn't totally surprising that Stiles barely blinks when he's woken up by a huge, hot hand over his mouth. His sleeping reptile brain just curls back in on itself and waits for Scott to start bitching about getting benched or how hard chemistry is.

 

But Scott doesn't usually lay on top of Stiles, and he definitely doesn't put his face so close to Stiles' that he can feel hot breath tickling his nose. Stiles sleepily opens his eyes and opens them much wider when he sees the spiky black hair and wide-set eyes of Derek staring back at him.

 

Not Scott, then.

 

Stiles starts with surprise, smile spreading across his face hindered by Derek's hand. This is so much better than waking up with emo-Scott.

 

Derek draws his hand away slowly, teeth glinting in the sparse light from the window. He leans in to press his mouth to Stiles', which is waiting and open because Derek is welcome in there any time, day or night. Derek's tongue sweeps out to tease against Stiles', his gasp swallowed into Derek's mouth as he feels the hard line of Derek's cock press against him.

 

“Meet me outside.” Derek says it so softly Stiles barely hears him, not giving him a chance to answer before he rolls off Stiles' bunk and slips out the door. He doesn't make a sound.

 

It's colder at night up here than Stiles would have expected, his hoodie hanging forgotten from the post of his bunk bed, and he's shivering slightly by the time he steps outside. His exit sounds like an elephant on rollerskates compared to Derek's stealth, but no one stirs or says anything. He's pretty sure he sees the glint of Sam's eyes before he rolls over onto his side. Sam won't tell.

 

It might be a chilly night, but Stiles isn't cold for long. All he hears is a deep, “Mmm,” as Derek pulls him in, turning Stiles' back to the rear wall as he kisses him deep and wet. Derek's hands are all over him, warm fingers tracing under Stiles' t-shirt to run up his chest and circle his thumbs over Stiles' nipples. They're already sensitive from the cool air, and Stiles whimpers against Derek's mouth at the skin-tingling churn of his stomach at Derek kneads at them.

 

Derek's knee presses in between his thighs, bringing the heavy weight of Derek's hip against Stiles' hard-on. Derek presses forward, rocking his hips up and grinding himself into Stiles until he's pretty sure his dick is gonna burst out of his sweatpants. Derek feels ready to spring free, too, the hard line of his cock nudging against Stiles with every dirty roll of his pelvis.

 

Derek's skin is softer than he'd remembered but just as hot as Stiles pushes his jacket up and gracelessly shoves a hand down Derek's stomach, fumbling with his belt and grunting with frustration. Derek groans eagerly against him, his tongue sweeping into Stiles' mouth all hot and heavy as he reaches down to help, zipping his jeans open and pulling his cock out. Derek hisses as it hits the air, pulling off Stiles' mouth to suck a wet bruise on his neck as he tugs the waist of Stiles' sweatpants down until the elastic is cupping his balls like a scratchy hand.

 

Shivers run down his skin as Derek sucks an earlobe into his mouth, rolling it between his teeth as he grasps both their cocks and starts to stroke them together. Stiles can feel the hot drag of Derek's dick against his, both of them dry and catching at the crowns until the streams of precome they're both producing run down and start to slick the way. Derek speeds up his pace and tightens his grip, tugging roughly and reaching his free hand up to pull Stiles in closer by the back of his neck.

 

Each pass of Derek's hand makes a wet _thwik_ sound, echoed by the smack of Derek's lips against his. Derek's going so fast Stiles is worried that the cabin's gonna start shaking, until Derek lets out a guttural moan and goes totally still, pressing his hips forward as he spills out over his hand. Hot trails of come run down onto Stiles' dick, which is bemoaning the lack of movement as Stiles' hips start to jerk of their own accord.

 

Derek chuckles against him, breath catching as he leans his head back. Stiles would almost swear his eyes are glowing in the moonlight, probably some weird trick of the light that Stiles' city-boy eyes aren't used to. Not that Stiles can think about it for too long, not when Derek sinks down to his knees and licks a hot stripe up the base of Stiles' dick.

 

Stiles yelps and stuffs a few knuckles into his hand, attempting to smother the series of broken noises that stumble out of his mouth as Derek licks his cock, long, smooth swipes of his tongue along every hot, throbbing inch. Stiles has to stifle another strangled groan as it dawns on him that Derek's licking his own jizz off Stiles' dick, and holy fuck that's about all he can take. He comes the second Derek closes his lips around the head of his cock, biting on his hand and threading his fingers through the dark spikes of Derek's hair.

 

It should be gross when Derek springs up to kiss him but it's not, it's salty and honest and everything Stiles wants. Derek kisses him until the musky, bitter-thick taste of their spunk is gone and it's just spit and teeth, the sheer pressure of Derek's body pressed against him the only thing keeping Stiles and his shaking knees upright.

 

Stiles whimpers, which is an embarrassing verb to associate with yourself but nonetheless true, as Derek suddenly pulls back and jerks his head to the side, tilted at an odd angle as he narrows his eyes and inhales. He sniffs the air a few more times, head moving slightly with each breath in a way that Stiles' brain is loathe to associate with a bloodhound for obvious reasons.

 

Derek goes totally still, his mouth drawing into a firm line as he seems to make a decision.

 

“I need to go.” Derek nods tightly after he says it.

 

“Oh, uh, OK,” Stiles answers, fumbling with his drawstring. Stiles isn't exactly a casanova but he's pretty sure you're supposed to get your junk back inside your pants before you say your fond farewells. Or, you know, act totally fucking weird and say you had to go. Whichever.

 

“Look, I just...” Derek seems to remember that his junk is still out, rolling his eyes as he tucks himself back in. “I can't explain right now, but, just go back inside, ok?” Derek sounds distracted, and not just by the complexity of getting his pants zipped.

 

Stiles opens and closes his mouth a few times, fish-face never having failed him before.

 

“I'll get in touch with you, ok?” Derek says. “Just don't come by the store, alright? Not until you hear from me.”

 

Oh. “Oh.” Stiles steels himself for rejection, because Derek is clearly breaking up with him, ok, not breaking up because there's really nothing to break, but Stiles isn't so inexperienced that he doesn't know what the old “I'll call you” line means. And who the fuck does that after blowing a guy?

 

“So you don't want to see me anymore?” Stiles can't keep the question inside himself, and even if it makes things more awkward right now, Stiles knows it'll make them better in the long run. He'd rather have a solid reason to pout and listen to his ipod with the covers over his face than hang onto some false hope for a phone call.

 

“What?” Derek does some suave version of sputtering. “Don't want to...” He sighs and presses himself back against Stiles, pulling him in closer with hand on his ass.

 

“Stiles, I want to see you.” Derek leans in until his lips brush against Stiles' ear. “I want to see every inch of you,” Derek whisper-growls, “I want to see you spread out on my bed, and I want to see you come over and over again while I fuck you, and I want to see what you look like when you suck my cock in the daylight.”

 

Derek trails his lips over Stiles' jaw, bringing them down to kiss Stiles softly. “I want to see what you look like when I take you out to dinner, and I want to see what you do when you watch a scary movie, and I want to know what your mouth tastes like after you eat an ice cream sundae.”

 

“I want to know those things, too,” Stiles mumbles against Derek's lips, “and I want to know what's going on. Are you ok?”

 

“I'm just dealing with some family bullshit right now, ok? Things are just …” Derek sighs and tilts his forehead against Stiles'. “It's complicated. But I'll be ok, I promise.”

 

“Ok.” Stiles lets himself be kissed again, closing his eyes and trying to ignore his misgivings.

 

“You'll hear from me soon.” Derek's looking at Stiles when he opens his eyes, moonlight reflecting pale gold off his eyes. “Don't worry.” Derek sees him around to the door of his cabin, watching him walk inside before he disappears.

 

Nothing makes Stiles want to worry like being told not to. Even if he weren't naturally contrary like that, Derek's forced smile would make him nervous. It doesn't feel like Derek's lying about wanting see him, though, more like he's too distracted lying about other things to bother hiding his feelings.

 

Stiles has spent most of his life feeling like someone isn't telling him something. It sucked when he was a little kid, and it still sucks. But it's not like Stiles can just fire off a quick text to his not-boyfriend, not-quite-up-to-fucking buddy: _Hey do u happen to come from a family of psycho werewolves? LOLs._ He rolls over and tries to think about ice cream sundaes, falling asleep feeling incredibly frustrated for someone who just shot his wad all over the woods.

 

*

Stiles isn't sure if he's better off knowing that the eggs he's consuming came from a powdered mix or not. At least the bacon is real, if a little charred. Jody had clearly been distracted when she made breakfast, just like everybody else this morning.

 

Dean had been gone when Stiles woke up. Stiles had chalked it up to “special time with Cas” and gotten all the kids ready for breakfast. He'd felt his heart sink a little when he saw Dean and Bobby hunched together outside the lodge, apparently trying to have a scowl-off. That couldn't be good.

 

Sam had seemed nervous, too, fidgeting all morning and barely eating anything. He kept looking up at Stiles with this worried look on his face, just to look away when Stiles tried to get him to talk. Even Gabe had toned down his usual morning-person exuberance. Everyone seemed on edge, and even the little kids were quieter than usual as they munched on their slightly-burnt toast.

 

Today is basketball day, which has become Stiles' second-favorite day after Harvelle's day. Stiles resented the assumption that he was good at basketball because he was tall. Stiles sucked at basketball, and after one attempt at teaching the kids how to dribble and winding up with skinned knees, Bobby had dismissed him.

 

Normally Stiles would spend the day reading, going for a swim, jerking off, stealing snacks from the kitchen, jerking off again and texting Scott random shit. Today, none of those things are enough to keep Stiles from thinking about drug-dealing werewolves or Derek feeding him an ice cream sundae or the Hale family issues that were keeping Derek from doing all of the wonderful-sounding things he'd whispered in Stiles' ear. His thoughts are a jumbled mess of worry, porn and frustration as he lays on his bunk, tapping imaginary drumsticks as he listens to his ipod.

 

When in doubt, Stiles generally settled on eating to keep himself busy when he was upset. His metabolism burned like a furnace; after all, something needed to fuel all that nervous energy. Eventually Stiles hauls himself out of bed and heads to the lodge to make a PBJ.

 

It doesn't fix everything, but he does feel slightly better as he sits on the back steps, mouth stuck together with sticky peanut butter every time he takes a bite. At least his blood sugar will be normal even if everything else around him has gone haywire. He just needed to talk to Dean. Dean was cool, and Stiles is sure that Dean will tell him what's going on if Stiles just finds the right way to ask him. Stiles can relate to having his guard up about family secrets.

 

“Bobby, for fuck's sake, we have to do something.” Speak of Lips McFreckles and there he is, stomping towards the back of the lodge with Bobby. Stiles gets a quick glimpse of their very unsettling expressions before he leans back into the doorway, hiding himself from sight as they walk over to the locked shed behind the lodge.

 

“That deer was half a mile away from my cabin, Bobby. What is it going to take for you to get my dad?” Stiles hears the rattle of a padlock and a creak as the shed doors open. “You gonna wait till some kid gets his heart ripped out?”

 

“For christ's sake, Dean,” Bobby grumbles, the shed echoing back a soft thump as someone smacks it. “I'll take care of it, alright? I think...” Bobby sighs.

 

“You think, what, Bobby, you think that last night some deer tripped on a log and accidentally lost a heart?!” Dean sounds like he's speaking through his teeth. Stiles feels chills run down his spine.

 

“No, you idiot.” Bobby hisses. “I think I know who it might be. There've always been stories around here, not that I've ever paid 'em any mind.”

 

“Come on, Bobby, you know there's no such thing as a coincidence in our world.” Stiles feels like his world is suddenly a very small and much safer place than Dean's world.

 

“Of course not, Dean, but I hung up my hat a long time ago. I'm happy here, with these stupid kids and Jody's half-assed cooking. Why the hell am I gonna run after goddamn werewolves?”

 

Dean lets hang a silence so loaded Stiles can feel it. Stiles holds his breath.

 

“Anyway, there are some stories about the Hale family, owns the hardware store in town?” Bobby grunts as he hefts something out of the shed. “You know 'em?”

 

“Yeah, I do. That kid Derek is new, right?” Dean sounds strained as he asks. Stiles bites his peanut-butter coated lip and tries to keep from groaning.

 

“Aww, Dean, c'mon.” Bobby sounds exasperated. “Don't tell me you're bumpin' uglies with the Hale kid.”

 

“No, god, gross, Bobby, _uglies_ , seriously?” Dean laughs. “You know I'm a one-horse cowboy, Bobby. But I've met him. You think it's him?”

 

“Not sure.” Bobby lets out a long sigh that reminds Stiles of his dad. “I'll let you know, ok? In the meantime, just make sure none of the kiddies wander off into the woods.” The shed doors slam closed with a squeak of hinges.

 

Stiles manages to slink off the steps and dart around the other side of the lodge without either of them noticing. His PBJ sits in his stomach like a brick. His brain feels like the circuits keep crossing, unable to process so much bizarre and completely fucked information. Stiles' meth-lab conspiracy theory rings hollow, and it's a bad state of affairs when he's freaked out that a violent drug-ring _isn't_ the logical option.

 

Stiles has no one to talk to, not really. Dean and Bobby have clearly gone off the reservation if they're talking about B-movie monsters and crazy old legends. And if Stiles is honest, he barely knows Derek. Even if he knows exactly what his dick looks like (and envisions it in explosive technicolor detail every eight seconds), they've hardly had a real conversation. Stiles' dick is 100% ok with that, because why would Derek talk when he could be doing that _thing_ with his tongue, but it doesn't help Stiles laugh off the insane suggestion that Derek or his family members are fucking werewolves, which is crazy and impossible and makes a perfect, horrible sort of sense when Stiles thinks about it.

 

Stiles pulls out his phone and stares at the screen, locking and unlocking it absently as he thinks about the best thing to do. Out of sheer habit he sends Scott a text, some meaningless jibe about his hair. The familiarity of it helps settle him. There is clearly a reasonable explanation for all of this. For fuck's sake, Dean and his family don't even watch TV. They're probably one of those crazy home-schooling families that teaches their kids that Jesus rode around on a dinosaur. He shouldn't be so worried about whatever crazy shit Dean was hassling Bobby about. Although Bobby hardly seemed crazy. He was grumpy and antisocial, sure, but resolutely sane. And he was the one who said “werewolves” after all...

 

Stiles jumps a little as his phone buzzes in his hand. Scott had come up with a retort pretty quickly, which meant it was going to be really lame.

 

“I'll explain everything tonight. Meet me at the driveway at 12. D” Stiles' brain trips over that first part, wondering how Scott is going to _explain_ that his hair looks like a luxurious squirrel died on his head, before it catches on and promptly tells his hand to drop the phone and start freaking out.

 

This is definitely a bad idea. Stiles definitely shouldn't go out at midnight to meet his maybe-kinda-sort of boyfriend who may or may not be a heart-devouring wolfman. No way, no how, bad news bears ahead.

 

Stiles picks his phone up and sighs, tapping out a quick, “OK” before he heads back to his cabin to tell himself that there's no such thing as monsters.

*

Stiles has never been scared of the dark, but he sure wouldn't mind a little sunshine right now. The moon isn't full, at least Stiles doesn't think so, and its light is dim enough that he's regretting his decision not to bring along extra flashlight batteries.

 

He leans back against the split-log fence that lines the driveway, testing it first to see if it collapses. All wood on Bobby's property was presumed rotten until proven innocent.

 

Stiles knows he isn't from the big city, and his little suburban town had a respectable amount of woods, but Stiles is a city mouse at heart. Out here, in the country-country, even at the edge of the woods everything seems magnified a thousand times. The woods at night are fucking _noisy_. The hum of passing cars and neighbors' television sets and the other white noise he'd always taken for granted is nowhere to be found. Stiles hears every chirp and crack and click and crunch that nature has to offer, and not a single one of them helps put him at ease as he waits for Derek.

 

“You are not a deer, Stilinski, you are not a deer...” Stiles chants to himself, tapping his apex-predator opposable thumbs against his thighs. No one was coming to rip his heart out, unless Derek was going to dump him tonight.

 

The snap of a twig cracks through the air and momentarily stops Stiles' heart, making his skin prickle icy hot. He's frozen in place until another pop kick his fight-or-preferably-flight reflex into gear. He hops off the fence and swings his flashlight around to the woods behind him, watching the darkness swallow up the meager beam of light. His breathing sounds louder than humanly possible, coming out in jagged puffs as he tries to find his voice.

 

“Derek?” Stiles whispers, sweeping the flashlight back and forth over the trees. Stiles squeezes his eyes shut for a second, reminding himself that there's nothing out here that can hurt him. He shakes his head and tries to call out again, “De-”

 

Something like thunder comes rumbling out of the woods, catching the light from Stiles' flashlight and reflecting a green-black set of eyes that come barreling towards Stiles. He gasps, which he knows is a generous term for the shriek of terror he lets out, and ducks down by the fence, holding his flashlight in both hands like it's going to do him any good against the monster heading for him, the giant, hulking, antlered...

 

Oh. Stiles might not be a deer or a country mouse, but he knows Bambi's dad when he sees him. The buck looks at him for a split second before it turns to look back at the woods and takes off at a gallop, jumping straight over the fence and out across the road.

 

Stiles laughs and leans his head back against the fence. He's glad no one was around to see that. He stands back up, still laughing shakily, and takes a deep breath. He doesn't turn his head when he hears another twig snap behind him, keeping his eyes on the road for Derek's headlights, which should be here any minute.

 

The blow hits him squarely in the back of the head, blacking out his vision and turning his insides to jelly. He sinks down in a red-hoodied heap, his last conscious thought crossing serenely through his mind as he blacks out.

 

_Oh. Not a deer, then..._

 

*

Stiles has gotten up to his fair share of pranks. If toilet-papering houses were the respected sport that it ought to be, Stiles would have a college scholarship in the bag.

 

So it's only fair that Stiles doesn't instantly freak out when he wakes up tied to a tree. It won't be the first time, and Stiles' first instinct is to squish his face up and see if Scott put makeup on him again.

 

His head is heavy and hard to lift, but he manages to drag it up and blink his eyes open. It takes a few blinks to realize that he doesn't have anything over his eyes, it's just dark as fuck out. Why is it so _dark_? And cold? And where's Scott?

 

The snap of a twig behind him jerks Stiles' memory back through the fog in his head. Oh, _fuck_.

 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Stiles mutters to himself, testing the ropes on his wrists. He winces as his head connects with the tree, hitting the sore lump on the back of his skull. This also isn't the first time Stiles has come to with a concussion, so the mild wave of nausea that hits him isn't exactly a surprise.

 

“Tsk tsk, such language.” Stiles goes still, trying to crane his head around to meet the voice behind him. “I swear, you kids these days.”

 

Stiles knows it won't do any good, but he still struggles to escape as he hears slow, measured footsteps circling around towards him. He can make out a shape in front of him before a flashlight in his eyes whites his vision out.

 

“My god, you're even wearing a little red sweatshirt.” The flashlight wavers down to his chest, leaving Stiles to try to squint the stars out of his eyes. “I can't make this shit up!”

 

Stiles feels no less inclined to flinch away with horror the second time he meets Peter Hale. It certainly doesn't help that he's holding his flashlight under his chin, illuminating a face that's terrifying in the sunlight into something bone-chilling and just plain evil when he smiles.

 

Peter chuckles and swings the flashlight down to the ground, pacing back and forth in front of Stiles. He starts to hum as he sweeps the beam of light back and forth, some old song that Stiles recognizes from the cartoons they used to show in school during indoor recess.

 

Stiles feels less like a deer and more like a moth, mounted and wriggling on his pin. This is not good, there is no situation involving a burn-victim uncle and Stiles tied to a tree that could possibly be anything other than totally fucked. He'd feel better if he had a fucking clue what was going on, if he had some valuable information that would at least explain what Peter could possibly want with him. _Your nephew's got a huge dick and is responsible for 95% of my recent boners?_ That's about all Stiles has to offer in terms of Hale-related secrets.

 

“Little red riding hood, you sure are looking good...” Stiles blames the concussion for his passing thought that Peter actually has a pleasant singing-voice before he remembers that there's a fucking psycho singing at him.

 

Peter stops and turns, putting his hands up with a flourish. “You're everything a big, bad wolf could want.”

 

 _There's no such thing as a coincidence in our world_. Dean's words echo in his head as Stiles feels his stomach drop. Oh, come _on_...

 

“There we go, red, starting to get it?” Peter smiles, his laugh morphing into something that sounds more like a growl. His eyes are _wrong_ , glowing more than they should in the meager moonlight. They're not even glowing, more like burning, a deep red streaking through them like someone's taking a long pull off a joint.

 

“It's you.” Stiles feels his thoughts grinding together, his mind tripping over a million insane things as it tries to keep up with the horrible truth in front of him. There are werewolves, and there's one in front of him, and he's got Stiles tied to a tree and much more importantly, does this mean he'll die a virgin?

 

“Got it in one!” Peter beams, holding the flashlight back under his face as he smiles. His eyes are gleaming crimson, reflecting the light back like pools of blood. His teeth glint as he tilts his head, fangs bared in a parody of a grin, and Stiles feels his throat close up. _The better to eat you with, my dear..._

 

“Oh, fuck me.” Stiles squeezes his eyes shut and hysterically hopes that he's wandered into one of those urban legends where someone put acid in his 7-Up.

 

Peter moves faster than Stiles can quite register, standing there laughing one second and seriously violating Stiles' personal space the next.

 

“But he hasn't, not quite yet, has he?” Peter leans in and inhales, closing his eyes as he breathes in so close to Stiles' neck he can feel the air drawing up around him. It's creepy as fuck, more so because it reminds him of nothing more than the way Derek has nuzzled into him when they've gotten this close.

 

Stiles clenches his jaw and turns his face as far from Peter as he can. The goose-egg on his skull grazes against the tree and makes him wince.

 

“Don't worry, don't worry,” Peter shushes at him, still standing way too close. “I'm not going to eat you.”

 

Peter claps him on the shoulder, a gesture so friendly and familiar it makes Stiles' stomach drop out. “Although...” He leans in, taking another deep whiff at Stiles' neck as Stiles strains to get away. “You do smell delicious. I can see why Derek likes you so much.”

 

The mention of Derek doesn't make Stiles feel any better. Because this is Derek's uncle, and no matter how open Stiles is to lifestyle choices, psycho werewolf does not make that list.

 

“Where is he?” Stiles can't ask the question he really wants to ask, both for fear that he already knows the answer and his own willful refusal to play into Peter's plan.

 

“Oh, Derek? He'll be here soon.” Peter pushes off the tree, a toothy smile on his face as he steps back. “Assuming he hasn't _forgotten everything I ever taught him!_ ” The shift in his voice is bone-jarring, that sing-song lilt pushed aside for a grating, crazed scream. Not like Stiles doubted the guy was a few cocoa puffs short of a bowl, but the “here's johnny” impression dispels any hope Stiles may have had of reasoning with him.

 

“Now, Stiles.” Peter's got the cheerful face back on, clapping his hands together like he's leading a board-room meeting. “I just want you to know that your sexual orientation,” he stage-whispers, “is of no concern to me.” Peter puts a hand over his heart and furrows his brow. “I am an enlightened guy, Stiles. If my nephew wants to bat for the other team, that is totally his choice. What's a set of genitals in the infinite mystery of _love_?” The last word echoes through the trees as Stiles wonders if he's going to become the first victim of some kind of twisted werewolf hate crime.

 

“You understand, don't you?” Peter tilts his head to the side, looking at Stiles curiously. “I'm not a narrow-minded man, Stiles.” His eyes bore into Stiles', streaked red and swirling as Stiles struggles to turn away. “I guess you just could call me … a speciesist.” Peter grins, lips stretching wider and wider until the Joker himself would cringe, sharp fangs so close Stiles could crane his neck and lick them if he were as fucking crazy as Derek's uncle.

 

Peter turns his head sharply, tapping his fingers against the tree. Stiles can hear each thud-thud-thud-thud against the wood, and when he turns his head to look he instantly regrets it. He shouldn't be surprised to see claws drumming out a nervous crescendo next to his head, but that doesn't make them any less creepy.

 

“Well, speak of the sexually ambiguous devil,” Peter says under his breath, turning his back to Stiles and crossing his arms over his chest. The part of Stiles that isn't mentally composing his last will and testament and praying that Scott thinks to delete his porn before his dad finds it is kind of jealous that he didn't think of “sexually ambiguous devil” first, because it's damn catchy.

 

It takes Stiles a moment to notice the steady rhythm in his ears, growing louder and louder. The only word he really has for it is a gallop, that off-beat two-by-two _thwunk_. He strains his eyes to see out into the darkness, thinking that he's going to laugh himself to some hysterical death if another fucking deer bursts out of the bush.

 

His vision is still blurry from what's shaping up to be one awesome concussion, but he can just make out the twin points of gold headed straight for him. They're bouncing up and down in time with the creature's, or, wait, is that -

 

Oh. Not a deer, then.

 

Derek is running towards him, and he's running like nothing human should. Stiles has thought of a million animal-words to describe Derek, and that was before he even knew about the crazy fucking wolf genes, but quadrupedal was never on the list. Derek's running on his hands and legs, springing forth to rear up in front of Peter.

 

And even worse than the four-legged mambo is the fucking teeth. It's the sight of Derek's fangs, bared open in answer to his uncle's matching pair, that finally kick-starts Stiles' horror-movie instincts. He opens his mouth and screams, screams as loud as he can until he has to take in a gasping breath and do it again.

 

Two sets of eyes jerk towards him, both of which would look like special-effects contacts if Stiles hadn't stepped right into crazy-land, where there are werewolves and he's been almost-fucking one of them and he's tied to a tree and _fuck this_. Another scream doesn't really do anything to help, but it's marginally satisfying.

 

Derek moves to lunge towards Stiles, but Peter's faster, hooking a thick – and sharp, _ow_ – claw under Stiles' neck before Derek can get to him. The flashlight bounces to the floor, casting a long beam of light away from Stiles.

 

“Uh-uh-uh, nephew mine. I wouldn't do that.” Peter digs the point of his claw in deeper as Stiles cranes his neck away uselessly. “I have other plans for your little sweetheart.”

 

“Get away from him,” Derek growls, _really_ growls, not the sexy-raspy-naughty voice that makes Stiles' dick do back-springs, but a chilling, animal sound that would make Stiles get away from _himself_ if he had any free movement.

 

“Or what?” Peter turns without removing his finger, wearing a smirk that Stiles can hear in his voice. “You'll kill me?” Peter chuckles and tosses his head back. “We all know what that would mean.”

 

“I don't know,” is out of Stiles' mouth before he can help it.

 

“Don't worry, Little Red,” Peter turns back to him. “I'll explain everything.” Stiles lets out a sigh he didn't realize he was holding as Peter retracts his claw and turns to face Derek.

 

“As soon as Derek turns you.”

 

Stiles has often thought about what it would be like to have superhuman strength. He and Scott had spent countless childhood hours debating the merits of niche Superhero-powers (and the whole Antman vs. Aquaman debate was yet to be settled). Stiles is smart, and he's a good person, and most of the time that's enough for him. While he's never shared Scott's excessive pining for lacrosse supremacy, he'd be lying if he said he hadn't flexed his average-sized biceps in front of the mirror and found himself lacking. If someone had asked him what he would do when given a chance to become a werewolf, Stiles would have made some incisively witty comment about body hair and rolled his eyes, which secretly thinking it would be kind of awesome.

 

It's not awesome, it's not even remotely tempting at that. Stiles has never loved his flawed, pale body so much, with its odd scars and birth marks and fingernails that didn't look like they were made out of old kitchen linoleum. Stiles could maybe wrap his mind around the idea of Derek being some kind of extra-species mutant, but the thought of joining him makes Stiles' skin crawl.

 

Derek seems to feel the same way, glowering at Peter and tensing into a crouch, like an animal ready to strike. “Never.”

 

“You little _shit_.” Peter snarls and takes a few deep, noisy breaths through his nose. “You lose your family, you lose your _pack_ , you lose _your sister_ , and you saunter back home and shack up with some twerpy teenager? A human?!” Peter throws his hand out to gesture at Stiles' struggling and very human form.

 

“You have no pride.” Peter claps a hand over his heart, shaking his head. “It hurts me, Derek, it really does. We're supposed to be a pack. Is this what Laura would have wanted?”

 

Derek's face falls at the mention of her name. Stiles feels his own heart clench in sympathy. The bits and pieces of the story are enough to make him hurt for Derek.

 

“No. She wouldn't.” Derek sets his jaw and digs his claws into the soft forest floor, balancing his other arm behind him as he shifts his weight and rears his head up. Stiles has to admit that he's terrifyingly beautiful like this. “Don't ever say her name again.”

 

Peter snorts derisively. “Well, she sure said your name a bunch of times.” Peter puts his hands up in front of his chest, clasped together like he's pleading. “Derek will find you, Derek won't let you get away with this,” Peter says in a shrill, high-pitched voice.

 

“You … oh god. You killed her.” Derek doubles over like someone just punched him in the stomach. “Your eyes, I never...” Derek's voice is drowned out by Peter's bitter laughter.

 

“Never noticed that I was the alpha, Derek? Some fucking wolf you are. Maybe if you'd come hunting with me instead of humping Little Red's leg you would have noticed,” Peter snarls.

 

Derek growls in answer, hunching his shoulders and spreading his hands open. His eyes gleam amber-gold, incandescent as he narrows them at Peter. “Let him go. I don't care if it makes me the alpha, I will fucking kill you.”

 

“Oh, come on, Derek. Just one little bite. Probably won't be the first hickey you've given him.” Peter winks at Stiles, which is infinitely creepier when his eyes are shot red and glowing in the dark.

 

Stiles looks past him, looks to Derek and widens his eyes in surprise. Derek must take it as a sign of Stiles' fear, loosing a loud snarl and lunging towards Peter. Peter turns on a dime, flicking his hands out in an honest-to-god Wolverine move that would make not-tied-up Stiles laugh.

 

Stiles feels like he could laugh, if only because he's sure that the bump to his head really fucked him up because what he's seeing makes no sense at all. As Peter answers Derek's growl with one of his own, Stiles looks past both of them, tracing the weak beam of light shining out of the flashlight.

 

Surely Stiles is hallucinating, because why else would Sam Winchester be standing there? With a gun? While slowly shaking his head at Stiles and putting a finger to his lips?

 

Stiles is pretty sure things should start running in slow motion about now, when Sam raises the barrel of the shotgun. There's no slow-mo moment of clarity, no clear outline of Peter springing forward to rush Derek, no deafening _thunk_ as Sam pumps the barrel and fires. The blast of the shotgun is loud and fast, the burst from the muzzle rendering Stiles spark-blind. All he can see is the vague outline of Peter Hale staggering back, wheezing out a long, “Oh, fuck,” before he unceremoniously falls to the ground.

 

He's still blinking the dancing white out of his eyes when he feels the tension on his wrists disappear. The blood tingles as it rushes back into his hands, and he staggers as he steps forward. His head is swimming and he can feel a new wave of nausea rising in him as he finds his feet.

 

The arm that reaches around his chest to prop him up is thick and warm, and Stiles has never been so happy about an arm before. He slumps against Derek, trying to hold back the rising hysteria in his chest that makes him want to laugh and sob and barf all at once. Derek supports his weight and helps him forward a few steps.

 

“Hold it.” It's really Sam, which would be crazy if Stiles hadn't leapt over the crazy threshold into anything-goes territory. Bigfoot could waltz in with a tea set and Stiles would only wonder if he had sugar.

 

“Let him go.” Sam holds the gun steady, trained on Derek with the concentration of years of experience. Sam might be shrimpy but Stiles isn't totally sure who he'd place his money on.

 

“It's ok, Sam.” Stiles' voice sounds more like a croak, which is better than the chest-tingling growl Derek is rumbling out. “Derek's not … well, fuck, I guess he is like Peter, but he won't hurt me.”

 

Stiles can feel each breath Derek draws in, his chest heaving and his body tense where it's molded to Stiles. He doesn't have his game-face on anymore, but his eyes are still phosphorescent in the light from Sam's headlamp. Stiles heaves himself off of Derek's arm and turns to look him square in the face. “Right?”

 

“Of course.” Derek looks at him balefully, blinking his eyes as the yellow recedes and Stiles is left staring at a ruggedly handsome but otherwise normal person. “I'm not like him, Stiles, please, you have to understand.”

 

“Saaaaaaammmmm!” All three of them look up as the voice echoes through the woods.

 

“Shit, shit, shit,” Sam mutters, still holding the gun on Derek even as his aim wavers. “That's Dean, he's gonna ...” Sam sighs, sounding so much older than he has any business being, and lowers the gun, tucking it under his arm and looking behind him. He bites his lip, blowing out a long breath before he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a Swiss army knife.

 

Sam curses steadily as he pries out the small blade. Derek hasn't relaxed an inch, but he's not sprouting any pointy appendages so Stiles figures he's ok.

 

“What are you doing?” Stiles lowers his voice as he says it. He can hear Dean's voice calling out, hear the crunch of boots drawing closer.

 

“Not everyone's as understanding as you are, Stiles.” Sam sighs and looks at Derek. “Give me your arm. Just trust me, they'll be here soon.”

 

Derek looks at Stiles quickly, brow furrowed as he extends his arms to Sam. Sam's quick, sliding the blade over Derek's forearm, leaving a dark red trail of blood behind. He wipes the blade on his pants and snicks it back into the casing, calling out an answering “Here!” as Dean yells his name again.

 

“Now you.” Sam jerks his chin at Stiles, pulling a different knife out of the waistband of his jeans. This is a pristine, golden opportunity for Stiles' “ _that's_ a knife” Crocodile Dundee impression, and he's got his tongue poised to strike when Sam shoves Stiles' sleeve up and slices his arm. Stiles manages a pained “thhhaaa” before Sam tugs his sleeve back down.

 

He isn't a moment too soon. Dean comes crashing into the clearing, holding a gorgeous Beretta that Stiles knows for a fact is illegal in the state of California. He gets it aimed at Derek in about 0.02 seconds, holding steady as Bobby catches up and stands next to him, bracing his hands on his thighs and taking heaving breaths. Their headlamps bob up and down as they take in the scene.

 

“I took care of it.” Sam walks over to his brother, holding the knife up in front of him. “It was the uncle.”

 

Bobby nods and heads over to Peter's body, touching his fingers to his neck and confirming it. “He won't be eating any more deer,” Bobby says tersely, standing up with the long groan of someone who's just way too old for this shit.

 

“Just the uncle?” Dean narrows his eyes at Derek, gun still aimed and ready.

 

“I tested him, he's clean.” Sam holds the knife up for Dean to see, Stiles' blood smeared over the silver. Derek holds his arm forward, letting Dean see the gash. Dean looks back and forth between Sam and Derek, and for a second Stiles thinks he won't buy it, but Dean nods tightly and lowers his weapon.

 

“Thanks for asking, I'm fine. No need to worry about me.” Stiles only wants to deflect attention from Derek, but it comes out sounding a lot bitchier than he intended. And for fuck's sake, why isn't everyone flipping the fuck out right now? There's a dead werewolf uncle on the ground and Stiles' different-kind-or-something-but-still-a-werewolf sort-of-boyfriend propping him up, and two of his bunkmates and his boss are just taking it in like it's some unfortunate inconvenience.

 

“What the fuck is going on?” Stiles' voice rises with each syllable, until he's somewhere between hysterical and hair-metal lead singer.

 

“Just calm down, son, I know this is all a bit much.” Bobby sighs, like it's testing his patience.

 

“A bit much?! This is fucking insane!” Stiles pushes off of Derek and immediately regrets it despite the dramatic panache it adds to his gesture. His head fucking hurts and he feels sick and it's seriously, really inconsiderate of everyone around him to keep spinning in doubled circles and being all blurry and talking in those weird, slurred robot voices. Then the lights go out and everything is black.

 

*

Stiles' first thought upon waking is where he can find a new head, because the throbbing pain is his is completely unacceptable. He blinks his eyes open and immediately regrets it, squeezing them shut and groaning.

 

“Hey,” he hears someone say softly, followed by the creak of wood as the mystery voice leans against the ladder of his bunk.

 

It's not any better the second time, but Stiles opens his eyes and manages to keep them that way. Sam and Dean are standing over him, Dean looking more bemused than anything else while Sam has that soulful crease between his eyes as he holds his hand up in front of Stiles' face.

 

“Three fingers,” Stiles mutters, knowing the concussion drill inside out by now. Sam nods and smiles softly, patting Stiles on the shoulder as Dean crouches down next to the bed.

 

“He's fine,” he says, reaching out to muss Stiles' hair and earning a glare from his brother. “Let me go get you some water.”

 

Dean ambles out of their cabin and leaves the screen door banging against the frame in his wake. The sound is really doing wonders for Stiles' headache.

 

“You ok?” Sam asks him, sitting down gingerly at the foot of Stiles' bunk. He leans back against the footboard and tucks his knees up under him.

 

“I …” Stiles' first instinct is to say he's fine, like he always says to his dad, but he's not fine. And he seems to be the only one who isn't in on the whole “monsters are real” story.

 

Stiles sighs and cradles his head in his hand. “God, what the fuck happened last night? How do you know all this stuff?”

 

Sam smiles, the kind of smile that doesn't reach his eyes or make either of them feel any better. “We're hunters, Dean and I. And our dad. He's off on a hunt right now, that's why we're here all summer. Bobby used to be a hunter, Jody too.”

 

Stiles thinks of Bobby's reluctant admission that the senior Winchester was drying out, and just nods his head. “So you guys hunt werewolves?”

 

“Yeah, and other things, too.” Sam picks at a frayed hole in his jeans.

 

“Other things? There are other things?” Stiles feels like he's about to click on one of those porn links that's all letters and numbers, where he'll probably see something really, really awful but he just can't help himself.

 

“Yeah, there's ghosts, and demons, lots of those.” Sam tilts his head like he's running through a mental checklist. “There are these things called wendigos, and there's, like, a dozen different types of water spirit, and even more kinds of slime monster, those are really gross...” Sam trails off as Stiles' mouth falls open.

 

“Bigfoot?” Stiles almost whispers it.

 

Sam smiles, a genuine one this time, and laughs. “Nope, bigfoot is a hundred percent hoax, I promise. But there're vampires, those are totally real.”

 

Stiles shakes his head and looks up through the slats of the headboard, watching the afternoon sunlight glint off a spiderweb. _No way_.

 

“Arachnes? Is that why you were so weird when I mentioned spider-monsters?” Stiles tries to sit up on his elbows before he realizes what a skull-squeezingly bad idea that is.

 

“Yep, those're real too, although they're rare. They're mostly found in the Mediterranean and they're very reclusive.” Sam shrugs his shoulders as Stiles gives him a look for the Encyclopedia Brown routine. “I'm good at doing research. It's mostly how I help.”

 

The screen door screeches in warning as Dean returns, balancing two big glasses of water and a sandwich wrapped up in some napkins.

 

“Jody insisted,” he says by way of explanation, chucking the sandwich onto Stiles' bed and setting the water down on the top slat of his bunk. For once in his life, Stiles' appetite is non-existent, but the water is cool and refreshing as he takes a few tentative sips.

 

“Hey, Sammy, why don't you go help Cas with that thing?” Dean raises his eyebrows at his brother and motions towards the door. Sam opens his mouth and then closes it, shrugging his shoulders and sliding off of Stiles' bed.

 

Dean takes his place once Sam leaves, and Stiles is seriously going to rip that fucking screen door off the second he feels like standing up won't make him puke.

 

“So.” Dean smacks his lips and drums his fingers against his knees. “I know that was pretty fucked-up last night. You're not gonna flip out on me, are you?”

 

Stiles mentally nominates that for understatement of the year, but he also recognizes the sincerity in Dean's voice. The two brothers couldn't be any more different from one another, but Stiles is pretty sure Dean's got a big heart hiding under all that flippant gruffness.

 

“Yeah, I'll be ok. I mean … eventually, I'll be ok. It's just a lot, you know?” Stiles tries to sit up again and groans as the room starts to spin.

 

“Hey, hey, hey, easy tiger,” Dean chides him, motioning for Stiles to lay back down. “You're off-duty for the day, just take it easy and get some rest.” Dean sighs and clasps his hands together.

 

“Look, I know it's fucking scary, alright? Hell, I still get scared sometimes. But you're not alone, there's people like me and Sam and our dad, and it's our job to keep everyone safe.” Dean sits up a little straighter at that, and Stiles feels a surge of affection for him as he sees the pride Dean takes in his life, the way his jaw sets into something purposeful and determined. “That's what we're here for, so don't get too freaked out, ok?”

 

“Ok.” Stiles smiles weakly and takes another sip of water. “So what about Derek? Is he ok?” Stiles is almost reluctant to ask, although Sam would've told him if something had happened.

 

“Well, why don't you ask him yourself?” Dean winks at him and whistles lightly through his fingers. “I can cover you for an hour before Bobby gets on my ass, ok?” The bed creaks as Dean hefts himself up.

 

“He's been waiting to see you all day,” Dean says approvingly, like it's what he would have done. “Gotta give him points for perseverance.” He smiles lasciviously and charmingly all at once before he heads out the door, looking side-to-side before Derek slips in behind him.

 

He looks … well, a normal person would look like shit, but on Derek it just looks dangerous and intriguing, like the movie-star version of exhausted and beat-up. The dark circles under his eyes and the stubble on his jaw make him look broodier than usual, and one half of his hair looks smushed like he fell asleep sitting up.

 

Dean gives Derek a knowing jut of his chin before he heads outside. Stiles clutches the napkin-swathed sandwich in his hand like it will somehow make the situation less awkward.

 

There's a tense moment as Derek just stares at him, opening his mouth for a few false starts before he finally settles on a simple, “Hi.” He runs a hand over the back of his neck, ducking his head down to look up at Stiles through his eyelashes. Stiles makes a mental note to crack a “maybe it's Maybelliene” joke at a more opportune time because holy fuck, Stiles can name five girls off the top of his head who would kill for cheek-sweepers like that.

 

“Hey.” Stiles sets the sandwich aside and sits up as much as he can, wincing slightly at the throb in his head as he moves. It's helped by the warm feeling he gets watching Derek smile back at him.

 

“Heard you were waiting up for me,” Stiles tries to say teasingly, landing on something shakier than he'd like. He tucks his sleeping bag under his knees and tugs nervously at the notched zipper.

 

“You slept for fourteen hours,” Derek answers, raising his eyebrows and nodding like he's impressed. “But they told me you were ok.”

 

Stiles just reaches out to pat an empty portion of the bed, not willing to say anything else until Derek's closer to him. Derek perches on the edge like he's not willing to get too deeply entrenched, his eyes darting between the door and his hands a few times before he finally looks Stiles in the eye.

 

“So.” Derek puffs a breath out through his lips. “Last night … god, Stiles, I am _so_ sorry, I can't even imagine what that was like for you. I can't ...” He stops and stares intently at some spot near Stiles' knees. “I can't apologize enough, I know, and I totally understand if...” Derek trails off, opening his mouth and swallowing while Stiles tries not to stare at the curve of his mouth, the way his lower lip looks like it's been chewed ragged with worry. “If you don't want to see me any more.” He darts a quick look up at Stiles before he re-fixates on the fascinating spot on Stiles' sleeping bag.

 

“Must have hit my head harder than I thought.” Stiles waits until Derek looks up at him, eyebrows knit together. “Because I just hallucinated you saying I wouldn't want to see you any more.” It costs him a wave of dizziness and a fresh twinge behind his temple, but it's worth it when Stiles leans forward to level his gaze at Derek. “And that's just fucking insane.”

 

Derek smiles at him, and good fucking god Stiles doesn't give a flying rat's ass what's swimming around in Derek's DNA when he smiles like this, relief and an open vulnerability written across his face. It makes Stiles want to take care of him, to reach out and hold him close and hear about every strange, scary piece of Derek that he's had to keep hidden away.

 

So that's exactly what he does.

*

“You know I'd never hurt you, right?” Derek pushes up onto his forearms, the pile of canoe-cushions underneath them letting out a soft whoosh of air at the shift in pressure. “We don't have to do this if you don't want to.”

 

“Oh my _god_ ,” Stiles mumbles against his lips, pulling him down with an arm slung around his neck. “If I were any more ready one of those fucking turkey thermometers would pop out of my fucking chest.” Stiles picks up the bottle of lube he'd begged off of Cas and jabs it against Derek's chest. It's still slippery from Derek's earlier, and overly-generous in Stiles' sticky opinion, attention with his fingers. “Just do it.”

 

Derek smiles, so broadly Stiles can see the moonlight from the small shed window glinting off his teeth. Stiles can feel the warm reverb of his laugh as Derek takes the bottle and presses himself close to Stiles, kissing his neck and inhaling deeply.

 

 _Scenting_ , that's what Derek's doing. It's one of the many verbs Stiles has become better-acquainted with in the past three weeks, along with hunting, shifting, claiming, and howling. All that stuff about Stiles smelling good hadn't been a compliment on his good hygiene – Derek could tell all sorts of things just by sniffing him, and apparently Stiles smelled like sex on a stick.

 

Derek licks a lazy stripe up the side of Stiles' neck, circling his hips to press his cock up against Stiles' aching hard-on. There's a slippery-wet pool of precome under Stiles' navel, accumulated while Derek had fingered him open. Stiles groans as the head of Derek's cock catches against his own, adding another pulse of liquid to the slick puddle. Derek swallows the desperate little sound with a kiss, pressing his burning-hot mouth against Stiles' lips, parched and dry from the hour of slack-jawed panting he'd done as Derek had opened him up. Derek's lips feels fever-hot against his, his tongue warm and sweet as it licks into Stiles' moaning mouth.

 

Another thing Stiles had learned? Derek was, in fact, hotter than most people, and not just because you could chisel things with his jaw. His baseline body temperature was a toasty 100.1 degrees Fahrenheit, and right now all that warmth is seeping into Stiles' bare skin like some kind of preternaturally handsome Snuggie. It makes the air against his exposed, lube-slick ass feel that much colder.

 

“Derek,” Stiles groans against his mouth, hiking his hips up to jostle their cocks together. Derek pushes up on his arms, licking his lips like he's chasing the last taste of Stiles off them. “Yeah? You ready?” He smiles down at Stiles, rocking his hips forward to press the full length of his cock against Stiles' stomach. Being a cocky tease is, in fact, not a werewolf trait. That's all Derek.

 

Stiles' stomach flutters at the sweeping trails of Derek's fingers down his body, tracing over the jut of his hipbone as Derek settles up on his knees. His nails drag and catch over Stiles' skin, and by now Stiles can tell the difference between Derek's neatly-trimmed human nails and his vicious, scary and totally boner-inducing wolf-claws. The former pull down across the crease of his thigh, trailing over to Stiles' slick, open hole.

 

He's still pliant and prepped from Derek's torturously, deliciously slow manual attention. Stiles wasn't even sure how many fingers he'd gotten up there, having lost count after two became _holy fucking god yes don't stop_ , which in turn had wound up a senseless whine as Derek deep-throated his cock and worked at that _spot_ until Stiles had pumped out a load of spunk, every ounce of tension in his body and most of his vocabulary.

 

Derek's fingers sink back into him like they never left, two, three, four of them, who the fuck knows, filling him and stretching him until he whines through his grit teeth and hikes his knees up to his chest in invitation.

 

Stiles had envisioned this so many times, how he'd lose his virginity (well, more like gleefully fling it off) to tall, dark and broody from the bonfire. He'd usually pictured it outdoors, which makes sense now that he knows what Derek really is. He'd have thought he'd be more nervous, instead of just _wanting_ and feeling woefully empty as Derek draws his fingers out and snicks the bottle of lube open.

 

This is a big deal to Derek, and sure, it's a big deal to Stiles, too, but he's not the one worried that he's gonna sprout fangs and glow-eyes halfway through. Stiles had chipped away at the “but I might hurt you” and “I won't be able to control myself” chorus that Derek offered him every time he mentioned going all the way, slowly but surely wearing him down. Night after night Derek had spilled his secrets and load after load of jizz as they humped against each other, backed up against Stiles' cabin, locked in the bathroom stall, and that one memorable night when Stiles had gotten an awkward patch of bark-burn on his ass and Derek had sprung an extra set of canines as he shot his load all over Stiles' helpfully-squeezed thighs.

 

The blunt press of Derek's cock against him makes Stiles' dick twitch with anticipation, the rest of him going tense and tingly as Derek lines his cock up and grazes the head of it over Stiles' hole. Stiles can hear how wet it is, Derek's concern with keeping Stiles intact extending to his liberal use of lube. It's cold for a second as Derek gently presses the crown of his dick against the slick furrow of Stiles' ass, quickly warming up as Derek's heat subsumes everything in its path.

 

Derek balances himself on one arm as he looms over Stiles, making their boat-cushion love nest list to one side under his weight. His brow is knit together and his lip is worried under a sharp but not yet truly canine tooth, and Stiles wonders what's wrong for a moment before he realizes Derek is waiting on him. He's too jumpy and tight-chested to do anything other than nod a fervent, “'Kay,” but it seems to be enough for Derek. He sinks down to give Stiles a deep kiss before he steadies himself with a hand under Stiles' knee and pushes.

 

The first breach feels bigger than Stiles can comprehend, every nerve in his body screaming at him that this is a brilliant, awful, wonderfully crazy-bad idea. Stiles knows he's as ready as he can be, but nothing has ever felt like this, this burning stretch that makes his skin feel two sizes too small and Stiles is positive that sparks are going to start flying out of some part of him because there's too much sensation for one body to contain.

 

He doesn't even realize he's letting out a long, high sound until he stops, his breath coming in jagged and uneven as Derek sinks in until they're flush together. It's still too much, but it's teetering over to the roller-coaster-ride-total-loss-of-control too much that makes Stiles want to giggle and shake and chase after more. He rocks his hips down to get more of Derek, get him deeper and get him moving before Stiles loses his mind.

 

Derek's head is tossed back, his chest outlined in the sparse light streaming in from the window. He's holding still despite Stiles' writhing suggestion, so Stiles reaches one long arm out to run up Derek's side. “I'm good, c'mon,” Stiles pants out, trying to wrap his free leg around Derek's waist. He can feel how tense Derek is, the set of his shoulders bunched and hard as he lowers his head to his chest. His eyes are squeezed shut and his lips are pressed together so hard Stiles' hurt in sympathy.

 

“Hey,” Stiles says softly, wrapping his arm more firmly around Derek's waist and pulling him down until his scrunched-up face is right in Stiles'. The change in angle skids Derek's cock over the fireworks display switch lodged in Stiles' ass and makes him gasp, “Fuck, fuck, oh god,” as Derek turns his face away. Stiles fights through the haze of endorphins that's making him jittery and sluggish all at once to press his hand firmly to Derek's cheek.

 

“It's ok,” Stiles murmurs, craning his neck up to graze his lips over Derek's. Derek swallows thickly, breathing out bull-huffs through his nose that tickle Stiles' eyelashes. After one deep, ragged inhale, he opens his eyes.

 

Stiles smiles at him, taking a moment to admire the honey-gold glow illuminating the gorgeous face above him. This is hard for Derek, who seems to think Stiles will bolt the second he's reminded that his, well, they haven't quite said boyfriend yet but they were getting close, is a few DNA helices removed from Stiles' species. Never mind that it, impossibly, makes Derek look even fucking hotter, wilder and just dangerous enough to make Stiles' dick throb where it's trapped between their stomachs.

 

Running his hand over Derek's cheek to press it firmly to the back of his neck, Stiles pulls him down for a kiss. He snakes his tongue out to run it over Derek's teeth, moaning as the tip of it meets the fine point of a fully-descended fang. Taking advantage of his new leverage, he wraps his legs around Derek's hips and prods him like a horse to canter.

 

“More,” Stiles mumbles against his lips, crushing his mouth against Derek's and running his fingers through the short spikes of hair at the nape of his neck. Derek's eyes flash brighter as he pulls back, letting his mouth fall open so Stiles can see the sharp teeth glinting over his lower lip. He draws his cock back slowly, the low sound in his chest building up with every inch he pulls out. Stiles can feel it, rumbling against his chest and breaking free to a full-throated growl as Derek sinks back into him, curling his back and bucking his hips forward until Stiles' dick is slapping up against his stomach with each push in.

 

Each insistent thrust of Derek's hips glides his cock over Stiles' prostate, already throbbing-eager from Derek's fingers, zinging little sparks that Stiles swears are audible as they sing across his skin. Stiles jumps like he's been shocked when Derek leans up and wraps a hand around his dick, palm tacky with sweat and pulling on the red-hot skin of his cock just enough to hurt so good.

 

Stiles has come with Derek's fingers inside him before, knows how that fullness inside him seems to push him over and make him not so much orgasm as experience some sort of epileptic incident that ends with a truly awe-inspiring trajectory of jizz. So he's vaguely prepared as he feels that familiar coil at the base of his spine, crouched and ready to spring, the pressure seeping across his stomach and drawing his nuts up close and tight.

 

God, he's close, so many sensations vying for his attention that they all turn into one long, desperate, _yes yes yes_ clench of his muscles as Derek rocks into him and hits all the right spots in concert and Stiles feels everything at once, Derek inside him and around him and every pore on his skin opening up to scream its joy at being so fucking _alive_. Derek's hand settles hot against his lips, and it dawns on Stiles that it isn't his skin that's screaming, it's him, voice rising with every wet pulse of come onto his stomach. And fuck, coming is such a ridiculous word for this, like he's arriving somewhere, like Stiles isn't totally fucking _gone_ , split open and sure the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth is the hot, thick weight of Derek's cock sinking into him.

 

Derek's voice is lost in a guttural, chanting repetition of Stiles' name, his hips stuttering off-tempo as he bends down and plants a hand on either side of Stiles' head. Stiles draws in a gasping breath through his mouth and grits his teeth together, feeling each mounting shove of Derek's cock as he quickens his pace. Stiles can hear every forward thrust as much as he can feel it, the slap of their bodies coming together like a slick metronome until Derek's deep-throated snarl silences everything as he buries his cock deep inside Stiles and holds it.

 

Stiles could get used to this, how everything seems to stand still and hover close around them, the air so thick with the scent of sex that even Stiles can smell it. He can't even imagine what it's like for Derek, although the slack-jawed, wild-eyed look of pleasure written all over his face points to it being pretty fucking awesome.

 

It surprises him, the way he can't actually feel Derek coming, can't sense the white-hot flood that he'd imagined filling him up. Stiles knows he's taking a risk, but Derek had promised that werewolves can't get human illnesses, and it wasn't like Stiles was gonna give him anything. Besides, he was inclined to believe the guy who watched his uncle die rather than bite him.

 

He does feel it when Derek goes soft, slipping out with a wet trail that tickles at his skin and turns cold in the open air. Derek groans as he moves his hands, and Stiles can just see out of the corner of his eye that the cushions on either side of his head have deep, evenly-spaced punctures in them.

 

Freed of his handholds, Derek collapses down next to Stiles, pulling him in close and forcing a soft sigh from the cushions as he rolls both of them onto their sides. Stiles goes along bonelessly, faintly registering that the towel he'd placed so carefully underneath them is bunched up in useless heap near his knees.

 

Normally Stiles would object to having this much contact with the cushions, which are probably housing species of mildew unknown to science and the DNA of half the camp counselors. But right now everything just smells like Derek, salty and hot and wonderful, so Stiles cranes his head back and forgets about the towel.

 

Derek's eyes are back to normal, looking down at him before he leans in for a kiss. Stiles sighs at the now-familiar nuzzle of Derek's nose at the back of his neck, inhaling deeply and breathing out damp and warm against his skin. He hums happily and wraps his arms around Stiles a little tighter.

 

“I can smell it,” Derek breathes out against his ear, nipping softly at Stiles' earlobe.

 

“Huh?” Stiles can think of any number of things Derek's keen nose could pick up, and none of them are particularly pleasant.

 

“You smell different now,” Derek says, inhaling sharply for good effect. “I can smell my seed in you.”

 

Stiles is fighting the exhaustion and post-orgasmic lassitude that Derek always seems to leave him in, but he's not too tired to twist his neck back and give Derek a look.

 

“Your _seed_?” Stiles snorts in laughter. “What kind of fucking bad romance novel are you _from_ , Derek, seriously?” He only laughs harder at the wounded look Derek throws back at him.

 

“Did it come out of your throbbing member?” Stiles ducks as Derek hefts a cushion at him.

 

“Whatever,” Derek grumbles, pulling him in closer, “at least I've never read a fucking romance novel.”

 

Stiles doesn't have a good answer for that, so he just snuggles back against his very own bodice-ripping swashbuckler and enjoys the hour or so they have before Stiles needs to sneak back to his cabin.

*

“So, uh, is this a date?” Stiles holds his ice-cream laden spoon in mid-air and quirks an eyebrow at Derek.

 

“Well,” Derek says, peeling off a soft curl of Harvelle's Chocolate Supreme Sundae with his spoon, “if it is, you're a pretty cheap date.”

 

Stiles grimaces at that, helping himself to another sticky scoop. This would be their last camp outing to Harvelle's, and he intended to make the most of it.

 

The kids were making their usual racket, careful not to misbehave too much under Ellen's watchful eye and Bobby red-eyed glare. Dean and Cas were at the next table, Cas fastidiously dipping each of his fries into a neat pool of ketchup while Dean did his best anaconda impression, practically unhinging his jaw to lovingly deep-throat the bacon cheeseburger he'd been pining for all week.

 

“We could call it that, if you want.” Derek shrugs his shoulders and puts his spoon down on the fluted bowl Ellen had pointedly told Stiles not to break. “Or, you know, when you're back home I could come visit and take you on a real date.”

 

It's not like Stiles hasn't thought about this conversation, an inevitable necessity that he'd dreaded anyway. When he did think about it, it was usually with a deep, anxious kick in his gut. But his quickly-squelched day-dreaming had generally run to Derek putting him aside like that summer-hit pop song no one wanted to hear after Labor Day, not Derek making conjugal visitation plans.

 

“My, my,” Stiles settles on mild snark to keep himself from flinging his arms around Derek's neck and begging him to come home, “what are you, trying to treat me like a lady?”

 

Derek darts a quick side-to-side glance before he leans in, brushing the toe of his shoe across Stiles' leg. “What if I just treat you like a guy I really want to keep fucking?” Derek's smile is hungry and bright and doing nothing at all to help stop the steady flow of blood to Stiles' blessedly baggy shorts. “I mean, I'm thinking of selling the store anyway, and it's not like Beacon Hills is _that_ far away.”

 

“That, uh, that works, too,” Stiles stammers, trying to sound cool and realizing half-way through he won't last another second if he tries to contain his excitement. He runs the rubber sole of his Converse up Derek's calf and sinks back in his seat, biting his lip and grinning. “That'd be great.”

 

Derek leans his elbows on the table and cocks an eyebrow as he looks at his watch. “You're supposed to leave in 20 minutes.” He picks up another spoonful of sundae, more syrup than anything else at this point, and licks it off with the heavy-lidded sensuality of a cat hellbent on getting written up for public indecency.

 

“Think we could sneak back to the store?” Stiles is half-way out of his chair before Derek even finishes the question. Not like it was gonna hurt to remind Derek what he'd be coming to visit. Stiles had gained about a million experience points in the past six weeks, and what he lacked in technique he more than made up for in whole-hearted enthusiasm.

 

Two quick and sloppy blowjobs later, Stiles leave Hale Hardware with a warm flush on his face and Derek's promise to stop by the cabin tomorrow night. He saunters back to the ice cream parlor, careful not to meet Jody's gaze as he plops down next to Cas.

 

Cas leans forward, looking Stiles up and down before pointedly snapping a fry between his teeth. “I didn't know the sundaes came with happy endings. Dean, what have we been missing?” Dean just rolls his eyes and gathers the crumpled remnants of his cheeseburger feast onto the tray.

 

“Time to get this freakshow on the road. You riding with us, Stiles?” Dean asks as he rises, greasy-wrapper laden tray in his hands. Stiles nods and gets up, looking around for Sam while Cas sidles up next to him.

 

“Dean hasn't noticed yet. Look,” Cas whispers, jutting his chin at the ice cream counter. Jo comes out from the back room, carrying a large refill tub of ice cream. Her face is bright red and her ponytail looks askew, with stray hairs sticking up like a honeyed halo. She sets the ice cream down on the counter and looks nervously from side-to-side, visibly sighing with relief when she doesn't see her mother. It doesn't make any sense to Stiles until he sees Sam come through the same door a moment later, carrying another tub of ice cream and looking more flushed and disheveled than Jo.

 

“Oh,” Stiles whispers back, nodding his head approvingly. Go Sammy.

 

“Where's Sammy?” Dean says next to them like an echo, sweeping the room with what Stiles now recognizes as a well-trained hunter's eye. When he sees Sam setting the ice cream down by Jo and nervously smoothing his hair, he murmurs, “Well, fuck me,” and jerks his head towards the door as he smiles a 1,000-watt grin at Sam. “That's my boy.”

 

They all pile into Dean's Impala, the teasing chatter of Dean and Cas interrogating Sam drifting into the background as Stiles leans his head against the side window and looks out at the trees passing overhead. The late afternoon sun filters down, amber-gold and warm and against his face. Stiles thinks of the woods near school, wondering if Derek will run through them when he comes to visit.

 

It hadn't been the summer Stiles expected, and while he'd have a whole host of new things lurking in his subconscious – nightmares about Peter and never-wake-me-up dreams about Derek – he really wouldn't have it any other way. He closes his eyes and leans back against the leather seat, feeling a new sense of satisfaction about the summer's end.

 

The End

 

 


End file.
